OLD  COUNTRY 


HENRY  NEWBOLT 


/f/S 


THE  OLD  COUNTEY 


FIRST  EDITION  .  .  .  October  23, 190G 
SECOND  IMPRESSION  .  November,  1906 
THIRD  IMPRESSION  ,  .  January,  1907 


THE 

OLD    COUNTRY 

A  ROMANCE 


BY 

HENEY    NEWBOLT 

AUTHOR  OF 

'TAKEN  FROM  THE  ENEMY,"    "THE  YEAH  OF  TRAFALGAR, 
"  ADMIRALS  ALL,"    ETC. 


NEW   YORK 
E.  P.  BUTTON  AND  COMPANY 

31   WEST  TWENTY-THIRD  STBEET 
1907 


PRINTED  BT 

WILLIAM  CLOWES  AND  SONS,  LIMITED, 
LONDON  AND  BECCLE8. 


*        <* 


STACK 
ANNEX 

ft? 

5/03 


\°{01 


"In  Eternity  there  is  no  distinction  of  Tenses. 

"  And  in  this  sense,  I  say,  the  World  was  before  the  Creation, 
and  at  an  end  before  it  had  a  beginning;  and  thus  was  I  dead 
before  I  was  alive :  though  my  grave  be  England,  my  dying-place 
was  Paradise. 

"  He  who  hath  thus  considered  the  World,  as  also  how  therein 
things  long  past  have  been  answered  by  things  present,  how  matters 
in  one  Age  have  been  acted  over  in  another,  and  how  there  is 
nothing  new  under  the  sun,  may  conceive  himself  in  some  manner 
to  have  lived  from  the  beginning  and  to  be  as  old  as  the  World : 
and  if  he  should  still  live  on,  'twould  be  but  the  same  thing." 

SIR  THOMAS  BROWNE. 


TO  THE 

RIGHT  REV.  COSMO  GORDON  LANG,  D.D., 
LORD  BISHOP  OF  STEPNEY 

MY  DEAR  LANG, 

You  kindly  promised,  when  we  last  parted,  to 
give  me  your  criticism  and  advice  upon  certain  portions 
of  this  story  before  it  went  to  Press.  I  have  very  re- 
luctantly denied  myself  these  great  advantages,  because  I 
saw  upon  reflection  that  my  subject  is  one  about  which 
I  could  hardly  consult  you  without  involving  you  more 
deeply  than  I  had  any  right  to  do.  Still,  though  the 
author  alone  must  be  responsible  for  his  book,  he  may, 
I  hope,  dedicate  it  to  you ;  not  with  any  intention  of 
seeking  the  support  of  your  name  for  his  own  theories, 
but  in  grateful  commemoration  of  an  old  and  valued 
friendship. 

It  falls  short,  I  fear,  of  modern  standards ;  burdened 
as  it  is  with  something  like  a  purpose,  and  enlivened  by 
no  portraits  drawn  from  life.  It  is  true  that  all  the 
fourteenth-century  characters  in  the  book  once  played 
their  parts  in  England,  and  were  perhaps  not  very  unlike 

vii 


viii  DEDICATORY  LETTER 

the  picture  I  have  given  of  them ;  but  I  can  offer  my 
readers  no  hope  of  discovering  among  the  rest,  with  or 
without  a  key,  the  face  or  personality  of  a  single  living 
contemporary.  Gardenleigh  alone  has  some  resemblance 
to  a  sketch  from  nature,  and  there  I  put  my  trust  in 
the  generosity  of  its  possessors,  remembering  that  they 
have  before  now  forgiven  me  a  far  costlier  theft. 

The  purpose  is  a  more  serious  fault ;  but  even  that 
you  will  view  with  less  severity  because  you  are  yourself 
a  lover  of  History,  and  must  often  have  regretted  that  the 
life  and  motives  of  our  ancestors  should  be  so  travestied 
as  they  have  generally  been.  It  would  seem  to  be  the 
common  belief  and  pride  of  the  gentlemen  of  England 
that  they  are  descended  from  forefathers  who  were  utterly 
different  from  them  not  only  in  their  choice  of  clothes 
and  oaths,  but  in  habitually  pursuing  a  behaviour  which 
would  qualify  in  any  civilised  country  for  solitary  confine- 
ment of  one  sort  or  the  other. 

My  hero  comes  upon  the  stage  afflicted  with  these 
curious  delusions.  Happily  he  is  not  too  old  to  learn ; 
besides,  long  travel  has  familiarized  him  with  many  varieties 
of  speech  and  costume,  and  being  a  student  of  ideas  rather 
than  appearances,  he  is  more  struck,  when  he  reaches  the 
England  of  1356,  by  the  points  of  similarity  between  the 
thought  of  the  fourteenth  and  twentieth  centuries,  than 
by  the  external  and  trivial  differences  which  counted  for 
so  much  in  the  books  from  which  his  knowledge  of  the 
past  was  derived.  To  accord  with  this  bent  of  his  mind, 


DEDICATORY  LETTER  ix 

as  well  as  with  the  convenience  of  the  reader,  I  have 
translated  the  dialogue  of  my  characters  out  of  the  Latin 
and  Anglo-French  of  the  original  authorities  into  language 
which  aims  at  being  a  faithful  transposition,  and  is,  in 
fact,  often  a  word-for-word  rendering.  This  is  Sir  Walter's 
method — you  remember  the  Dedicatory  Epistle  to  Ivanhoe 
— and,  as  in  Sir  Walter's  case,  the  effect  is  sometimes 
startlingly  modern.  But  nothing  could  be  more  modern 
than  the  letters  of  John  de  Grandison  or  the  war-reporting 
of  Geoffrey  le  Baker ;  and  even  in  the  less-authenticated 
passages  I  believe  that  I  have  used  no  expression  which 
is  not  justified  by  documents  or  which  would  be  absurd  or 
unintelligible  to  an  Englishman  of  the  fourteenth  century 
if  it  could  be  literally  retranslated  to  him.  The  heroine's 
name,  Aubrey,  inherited  from  her  ancestresses  Aubrey 
Marmion  and  Albreda  de  Warrenne,  I  have  ventured  to 
retain,  though  it  is  now  unfamiliar  as  a  feminine  name. 

Harry  Marland's  account  of  the  battle  of  Poitiers  is, 
I  hope,  the  true  one.  It  contains,  at  any  rate,  all  that 
it  is  possible  to  incorporate  of  the  narratives  of  the  four 
authorities  whom  I  have  consulted.  The  most  valuable 
and  probably  the  least-known  of  these  is  the  Chronicon 
Gctlfridi  le  Baker  de  Swynbrolce,  which  I  have  closely 
followed  throughout,  supplementing  it,  where  I  could 
consistently  do  so,  from  the  "  Chronique  Normande  "  and 
from  Froissart's  anecdotes  and  the  contemporary  poem 
of  the  Chandos  Herald.  In  one  or  other  of  these  four 
will  be  found  every  detail  of  the  battle  contained  in  my 


X  DEDICATORY  LETTER 

39th  and  40th  chapters ;  but  I  confess  that  I  alone  have 
made  Devon  men  of  the  archers  who  charged  up  the 
waggon  side  of  the  hill  and  drove  the  French  off  down 
the  other  slope.  It  is  merely  a  matter  of  inference :  if 
Lord  Bryan  was  there,  and  they  were  his  men,  Devon 
men  they  must  have  been. 

About  the  sense  of  Time  I  do  not  remember  that  we 
have  ever  had  any  talk  together  ;  but  I  have  only  to 
think  of  you  to  realize  the  paradoxical  nature  of  our 
common  system  of  measurement.  It  was  but  yesterday 
that  I  first  saw  and  heard  you  at  the  Union,  speaking 
eloquently  in  defence  of  the  Church,  though  by  the  Uni- 
versity Calendar  it  is  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  century  ago. 
On  the  other  hand,  it  is  many  a  lifetime — is  it  not  ? — 
since  we  said  good-bye  in  the  Library  after  our  last  paper 
in  the  Old  Schools  :  though  one-and-twenty  little  years  are 
said  to  cover  all  those  mortal  changes  and  rebirths.  I 
offer  no  solution  of  this  mystery  of  Tune ;  but  I  have 
ventured  to  suggest  that  it  is  one  worth  thinking  about, 
if  only  that  we  may  be  less  prone  to  forget  the  sympathy 
we  owe  to  the  brave  and  ardent  spirits  who  hoped  our 
hopes  before  us,  and  who  belong  to  a  past  which  can 
never  be  truly  spoken  of  as  dead.  So  much,  at  least,  you 
can  accept  of  my  book  :  with  the  rest  you  will  deal  gently, 
as  the  offering  of  your  sincere  friend  and  admirer, 

HENRY  NEWBOLT. 


CONTENTS 


MM 

I.  TIME  AND  GA.BDENLEIGH  .,.           ...           ...        1 

II.  AUBREY             ...           ...  ...           ...               6 

III.  FATHER  AND  DAUGHTER  ...  ...            ...      13 

IV.  THE  WHITE  CUFFS         ...  ...  ...             19 

V.  IN  THE  TRAIN          ...  ...            ...            ...      27 

VI.  A  RIDDLE  OF  MEMORY    ...  ...            ...             35 

VII.  THE  PAINTER'S  ARGUMENT  ...           ...           ...      41 

VIII.  THE  SONG  OF  A  BIRD     ...  ...            ...             50 

IX.  IN  THE  CHURCH       ...  ...           ...            ...      55 

X.  AMONG  THE  CHURCHES    ...  ...            ...              CO 

XI.  TERMS  OF  SURRENDER  ...            ...            ...      71 

XII.  A  CHILD'S  DESIRE           ...  ...            ...              76 

XIIL  THE  POLITICIAN'S  ARGUMENT  ...            ...      83 

XIV.  "OoiEK  THE  DANE"        ...  ...            ...              93 

XV.  "EARNSHAW'S  SELECT  CHARTERS  "      ...  ...     101 

XVI.  "  GARDENLEIGH,  VOL.  II."  ...           ...           106 

XVII.  THE  CAP  OF  DARKNESS  ...            ...            ...     113 

XVIII.  THE  JOURNEY    ...           ...  ...            ...           119 

XIX.  THE  ARRIVAL           ...  ...            ...            ...     123 

XX.  THE  MARLANDS               •••  ...           ...           126 

XXI.  GRANDISON  v.  TREMUJI  ...           ...           ...     132 

XXII.  THE  BISHOP  ARRIVES      ...  ...           ...           146 

zi 


Xll  CONTENTS 

MM 

XXIII.  STORIES  BY  THE  FIRE       ...  ...  ...     152 

XXIV.  MISSA  CORAM  EPISCOPO 
XXV.  STEPHEN  IK  EXILE 

XXVI.  THE  BISHOP'S  MOVE  ... 

XXVII.  THE  BISHOP'S  DEPARTURE 

XXVIII.  RALPH  TREMUR 

XXIX.  STEPHEN'S  MONEY 

XXX.  SIR  HENRY'S  BOUNDARY 

XXXI.  Six  PROPOSITIONS 

XXXII.  A  HERETIC'S  THEOLOGY 

XXXIII.  RALPH  DEPARTS  ... 

XXXIV.  EDMUND  RETURNS 

XXXV.  EDEN  VALE        ...  ...  

XXXVI.  STEPHEN'S  DREAM 

XXXVII.  AUBREY'S  DREAM 

XXXVIII.  THE  BELLS 

XXXIX.  THE  TACTICS  OF  POITIERS 

XL.  THE  ETHICS  OF  POITIERS 

XLI.  LORD  BRYAN'S  VIEW 

XLII.  STEPHEN  DOUBTS 

XLIII.  REQUIEM  ETERNAM 

XLIV.  AN  OLD  MAN'S  THOUGHTS 

XLV.  THE  NEW  LORD 

XLVI.  THE  SAND  IN  THE  GLASS 

XL VII.  THE  HUNT  is  UP  ... 

XLVIII.  THE  OUTER  DARKNESS 

XLIX.  RALPH'S  FAREWELL 

L.  THE  SHADOW  ON  THE  DIAL     ... 


THE   OLD  COUNTEY 


GARDENLEIGH,  says  the  Post  Office  Directory,  is  a 
parish  partly  bounded  by  the  Sel  river,  two  miles  north 
from  Selwood  station  on  the  Baymouth  branch  of  the 
London  and  Somerset  Kailway,  in  the  Selwood  division 
of  the  county,  Selwood  hundred,  Selwood  petty 
sessional  division,  union,  county  court  district,  and 
rural  deanery ;  archdeaconry  of  Wells  and  diocese  of 
Bath  and  Wells.  The  Church  of  St.  Mary  stands  on 
an  island  in  a  lake  in  the  park,  and  is  a  small  edifice 
of  stone  in  the  Early  English  style,  consisting  of 
chancel,  nave,  transept,  south  porch,  and  a  small 
western  turret  containing  one  bell ;  in  the  church  are 
monuments  to  the  family  of  Silvayne,  former  owners 
of  Gardenleigh,  and  several  windows  containing  fif- 
teenth-century glass,  besides  much  interesting  carved 
stone-work.  The  building  was  restored  in  1879  from 
plans  by  the  late  Sir  Gilbert  Scott,  E.A.,  and  has 
sittings  for  eighty  persons.  The  register  dates  from 


2  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

1623.  The  living  is  a  rectory,  with  the  vicarage  of 
Croonington  annexed,  joint  net  yearly  value  £215,  in 
the  gift  of  Walter  Earnshaw,  Esq.,  and  held  since  1886 
by  the  Eev.  Dr.  Simpson,  of  Magdalen  College,  Oxford, 
who  resides  at  Croonington. 

This  leaves  no  room  for  doubt  as  to  the  place  of 
Gardenleigh  in  the  scheme  of  local  government  and 
its  ecclesiastical  advantages;  the  remainder  of  the 
description  is  an  equally  terse  combination  of  the 
picturesque  and  the  practical.  Gardenleigh  Park,  it 
continues,  once  the  property  of  the  Silvayne  family, 
who  were  in  possession  for  about  three  centuries,  is 
the  seat  of  Walter  Earnshaw,  Esq.,  lord  of  the  manor 
and  sole  landowner.  The  present  mansion  occupies  an 
elevated  position  in  the  centre  of  an  undulating  park 
of  about  eight  hundred  acres,  which  comprises  nearly 
the  whole  of  Gardenleigh  parish,  and  is  a  building  of 
stately  appearance,  in  the  modern  style,  erected  by  the 
late  Joseph  Earnshaw,  Esq.,  and  commands  fine  views 
of  the  surrounding  country.  The  park  is  adorned  with 
numerous  groups  of  elms  and  forest  trees,  and  contains 
a  lake  of  twenty-four  acres  and  two  smaller  ones ;  the 
soil  is  loam  and  marl,  and  the  subsoil  marl.  The 
land  is  chiefly  in  pasturage ;  the  area  is  seven  hundred 
and  sixty  acres  of  land,  and  thirty  of  water.  The 
population  at  the  last  census  was  thirty-eight.  Letters 
through  Selwood  arrive  at  eight  and  four. 


TIME  AND  GARDENLEIGH  3 

Such,  to  the  sane  eye  of  the  Directory,  is  Garden- 
leigh — no  great  seigneiirial  demesne,  no  historic  lord- 
ship, no  legendary  scene  of  romance.  It  does  not 
figure  among  the  coloured  photographs  which  adorn 
the  newer  carriages  of  the  Somerset  railway ;  it  is  not 
even,  like  some  of  its  neighbours,  to  be  viewed  by 
ticket,  on  Wednesdays  only.  It  is  merely,  what  it 
has  been  for  eight  centuries,  an  English  home,  now,  as 
always,  the  possession,  not  of  a  noble  house,  but  of 
one  among  the  thousands  of  families  which  supply 
the  common  needs  of  the  country  without  profit  and 
without  ambition.  It  is,  in  short,  private  property, 
and  its  history  is  as  private  as  its  ownership. 

The  words  are  no  sooner  written  than  the  ink  turns 
black  with  doubt.  Is  it  possible  to  say  with  truth  that 
the  parks  of  England  are  private  property,  and  the 
record  of  their  owners  merely  private  history  ?  Is  this 
island  so  full  of  beauty,  and  her  forty  million  folk  so 
careless  of  it,  that  the  immemorial  loveliness  of  Garden- 
leigh,  its  high  down  and  far  horizon,  its  deep  woods, 
and  the  stillness  of  its  shimmering  lake,  are  all  allotted 
to  be  the  portion  of  one  man,  shared  only  by  the 
population  of  thirty-eight,  who  are,  for  the  most  part, 
members  of  his  single  household  ?  Here,  as  elsewhere, 
the  squire's  courtesy  and  his  half-open  gates  belie  his 
legal  title:  he  is  a  guardian  of  the  national  land, 
as  seven  and  twenty  squires  have  been  before  him ; 


4  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

holders  of  an  office  as  old  as  any  in  England.     For 
change  has  passed  lightly  over  Gardenleigh  since  the 
day  when  William    the    Norman's    fighting    bishop, 
Geoffrey  of  Coutances,  died  at  enmity  with  Kufus,  and 
his  seventy  Somerset  manors  passed  to  the  Honour  of 
Gloucester,  to  be  parcelled  out  among  the  tenants  of 
FitzHamon  and  De  Clare.     What  it  was  then,  such 
in  all  essentials  it  has  been  ever  since.    Five  Colthursts, 
five  Marlands,  three  Romseys,  twelve  Silvaynes,  and 
three  of  these  new  Earnshaws  from  the  North,  have 
all  in   turn  become,   by  descent,  by  marriage,  or  by 
purchase,    the    stewards    of    the    commonwealth    for 
Gardenleigh;    all   in  turn  have  lived   here,   planted, 
drained  and  sown,  hunted,  and  administered  the  king's 
most  rustic  peace,  and  handed  on  the  place  to  their 
successors  unimpaired  in  beauty.     It  is  true  that  none 
of  them  have  attained  high  rank  or  lasting  fame  in 
politics,  in  war,  or  in  the  arts;  but  they  have  filled 
a  definite  place  in  English  life,  and  a  still  more  definite 
place  in  the  history  of  the  land  of  England. 

And  what  of  that  land  itself?  What  of  the  few 
hundred  acres  of  it  which  the  child-like  Saxon  in  some 
dim  century  named  Gardenleigh  ?  Is  it  not  a  dream  ? 
Even  as  we  know  it,  is  it  not  the  dream  of  seven  and 
twenty  generations  ?  Year  after  year,  life  after  life, 
century  after  century,  to  all  who  have  seen  it,  whether 
as  squires  or  serfs,  natives  or  settlers,  it  has  been  the 


TIME  AND  GARDENLEIGH  5 

fabric  upon  which  the  pattern  of  their  days  was  woven 
— the  perfect  setting  of  high  dawns  and  tender  sunsets, 
of  birth,  and  toil,  and  passion,  and  pursuit ;  of  all  joys, 
and  many  partings  and  inevitable  death.  Now  they 
themselves  are  dust,  or  less  than  dust ;  nothing  is  left 
of  them  but  the  shrines  they  built,  the  woods  they 
planted,  the  mounds  in  the  churchyard,  and  a  few 
stones,  for  the  most  part  long  since  broken  and 
illegible.  But  Gardenleigh  is  still  as  green  as  ever. 
Can  it  be  that  the  dream  has  indeed  outlasted  the 
dreamers  so  utterly  ?  Has  the  slow  stream  of  human 
life  had  no  effect  upon  these  meadows  that  it  has 
so  long  watered  ?  Are  they  no  richer  for  all  this  love, 
no  more  fertile  to  the  spirit  than  the  raw  clearings  of 
yesterday  in  new-discovered  countries  ?  Are  there  no 
voices  but  ours  in  these  old  mossy  woods  and  sunlit 
gardens,  no  steps  but  ours  by  this  lake  where  the 
stars  are  mirrored  in  silence  ?  What,  then,  is  Time, 
that  he  should  have  power  to  make  away  with  the 
dearest  memories  of  seven  and  twenty  generations  ? 


II 


THE  long  June  day  was  drawing  towards  a  close,  but  the 
last  hour  of  sunlight  rested  so  broad  and  still  upon 
Gardenleigh  that  every  moment  seemed  an  eternity  of 
perfection.  In  the  park  the  giant  elins  were  slumber- 
ing, each  one  wrapped  in  its  own  luminous  mist;  in 
the  gardens  and  the  two  grassy  avenues,  which  run 
through  them  to  east  and  west  of  the  house,  not  a 
eound  was  heard  but  the  cooing  of  wood-pigeons,  across 
which  came  at  last  the  seven  strokes  of  the  stable 
clock,  cutting  the  heavy  murmur  like  a  thin,  sharp 
blade.  As  the  last  beat  ceased  to  vibrate,  and  seemed 
to  leave  the  air  still  listening  for  it,  the  door  in  the 
verandah  opened,  and  Aubrey  Earnshaw  came  out  upon 
the  terrace.  She  stepped  into  such  a  flood  of  light  that 
she  hesitated  for  a  moment,  like  a  bather  on  the  shore 
of  a  wide  sea,  then  went  slowly  down  the  broad  flight 
of  stone  steps,  with  head  still  bent  to  avoid  the  glare, 
passed  between  the  squat  round  shadows  of  the  clipped 
laurels,  and  on  to  the  bay  in  which  the  sundial  stands, 
at  the  lower  edge  of  the  terrace.  Before  her,  down  the 
southern  slope,  lay  the  lake,  a  sheet  of  smoothest  gold 
among  gold-green  trees,  the  western  end  of  it  enamelled 

i 


AUBREY  7 

all  over  with  a  million  water-lilies,  white  with  golden 
hearts.  On  the  further  side  rose  the  steep  face  of  the 
down,  streaked  with  long  deep  shadows  of  elms  and 
chestnuts.  To  the  right,  beyond  the  water-lilies  and 
beneath  the  sunset,  lay  the  two  smaller  lakes,  the 
nearer  one  with  the  tiny  gray  church  on  its  solitary 
island;  and  opposite  the  church,  on  the  far  shore  under 
the  hill,  was  the  empty  green  shelf  on  which  the  old 
house  once  stood,  at  the  foot  of  an  avenue  that  marched 
right  up  the  slope  and  crossed  the  down  towards 
Selwood. 

Not  that  Aubrey  could  see  quite  all  this  from  where 
she  now  stood.  In  summer,  indeed,  the  smaller  lakes 
are  hardly  visible  through  the  leaves  of  the  trees  that 
overhang  them ;  the  church,  too,  is  deeply  embowered, 
and  the  old  house  itself,  if  it  were  still  standing,  would 
but  just  peep  out  here  and  there,  where  its  highest 
windows  looked  eastward  down  the  valley.  But  she 
knew  the  place  by  heart:  winter  or  summer,  near  or 
far,  she  saw  it  all — saw  even  that  which  was  no  longer 
there,  that  which  in  her  lifetime  had  never  been  there. 
She  had  always  regretted  the  fate  of  the  old  house :  of 
course,  it  had  become  impossible ;  it  was  ruinous  and 
costly — a  patchwork  of  inconveniences,  with  its  narrow 
fourteenth-century  yard,  low  Tudor  kitchens,  and  great 
Queen  Anne  front  out  of  all  proportion.  Low-lying, 
too,  and  damp,  no  doubt,  close  by  the  water,  from  which 


8  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

the  frogs  were  traditionally  reported  to  have  coine  at 
times  in  troops  to  serenade  the  drawing-rooin  windows. 
Jammed  against  the  hill  it  certainly  was,  on  a  platform 
so  much  too  small  for  pleasure  ground  that  the  gardens 
had  always  been  far  off,  on  the  southern-sloping  hill 
opposite,  where  Aubrey's  grandfather,  with  mid-Vic- 
torian wisdom,  had  placed  his  commodious — or  stately 
— mansion  in  the  modern  style. 

All  this  was  undeniable,  and  she  had  no  inclination 
to  dispute  it ;  but  the  regret  was  there,  and  she  often 
felt  sorry  that  among  her  few  memories  of  her  grand- 
father the  most  vivid  was  that  of  the  tone  in  which  he 
would  say  to  a  guest  or  visitor,  "  It  was  time  to  make 
an  entirely  fresh  start,  and  I  made  it."  But  here  her 
memory  served  her  well ;  she  could  have  kept  no  say- 
ing more  characteristic  of  old  Joseph  Earnshaw,  a 
north-country  lawyer's  son,  rock-jawed  and  iron-handed, 
who  had  made  a  creditable  fortune  at  the  Bar  in  time 
to  retire  at  fifty,  when  he  inherited  the  property 
recently  purchased  by  his  father  from  the  creditors  of 
the  twelfth  and  last  Silvayne  of  Gardenleigh.  Happily, 
his  rough  ultra-masculine  power  was  well  matched  by 
the  tenderness  and  serene  dignity  of  his  wife,  a  gentle 
and  beautiful  lady  upon  whom  the  traditions  of  long 
descent  seemed  to  lie  in  soft  and  stately  folds,  like 
ermine  on  the  young  shoulders  of  a  queen.  Her  only 
son  Walter,  Aubrey's  father,  had  the  good  fortune  to 


AUBREY 

inherit  equally  from  both  his  parents ;  he  had  a  clear, 
direct  outlook  upon  the  world,  and  an  irresistible  cour- 
tesy of  manner,  a  combination  which  made  it  as  diffi- 
cult for  an  inferior  to  deceive  him  as  for  an  equal  to 
press  him  too  far  with  argument  or  with  hospitality. 
In  this  Aubrey,  of  all  his  children,  resembled  him  most; 
and  now  that  the  others  had  married  and  gone  away, 
she  easily  took  over  the  government  of  the  house, 
reigning  at  twenty-five  with  more  success  and  surety  of 
touch  than  either  of  the  sisters  who  had  filled  the  place 
in  turn  during  the  fifteen  years  since  their  mother's 
death.  By  disposition,  as  well  as  by  ability,  she  was 
well  fitted  to  be  her  father's  companion ;  she  loved  the 
historical  and  philosophical  studies,  which,  with  a 
weekly  attendance  at  the  Bench,  were  all  that  stood 
between  him  and  idleness ;  and  she  succeeded,  having  a 
decided  bent  of  her  own  as  well,  in  keeping  alight  in 
him  that  glow  of  the  imagination  which  dies  down  in 
most  men  at  twenty-five,  and  is  almost  always  dead 
cold  by  thirty — the  age  at  which  the  majority,  if  they 
must  go  on  reading,  make  their  final  choice  between 
literature  and  the  Press. 

It  was  for  her  father  that  Aubrey  was  waiting  now, 
as  she  shaded  her  eyes  with  one  hand  and  looked  down 
from  the  stone  parapet  towards  the  path  that  led  up 
from  the  church  to  the  garden.  A  crisis  not  unfore- 
seen, but  not  to  be  avoided,  had  come  upon  her  that 


10  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

morning.  Called  down  to  prayers  as  usual  by  the  crash 
of  the  gong,  and  passing  as  usual  on  her  way  by  the  black 
oak  table  in  the  hall,  she  had  seen  fate  aiming  at  her, 
as  the  soldier  sees  instinctively  from  far  off  the  one 
rifle-barrel  in  the  row  of  trenches  that  is  pointing 
directly  at  his  own  heart.  From  that  table  she  had,  in 
the  past  ten  years,  lifted  thousands  of  harmless  letters, 
with  none  but  slight  and  pleasant  emotions.  To-day 
there  were  many  lying  there — three  or  four  for  her; 
but  she  had  no  sooner  turned  at  the  foot  of  the  stair- 
case than  she  knew  that  the  mortal  challenge  had  come 
at  last,  heralded  by  a  sober,  grayish  envelope  with  a 
foreign  stamp,  and  addressed  to  her  in  a  handwriting 
that  she  had  never  seen  before. 

There  was  no  sign  of  disturbance  in  her  looks  as  she 
took  the  letter  in  her  hand  with  the  rest,  and  walked  to 
the  other  end  of  the  long  hall,  where  the  servants  were 
already  assembling.  She  knew  what  it  contained: 
simply  the  acceptance  of  an  invitation  given  a  few  weeks 
before,  and  the  proposal  of  a  near  date  for  the  visit. 
Aubrey  and  her  father  had  been  travelling  home  from 
Venice  by  way  of  the  lakes  and  Switzerland.  The 
merest  chance  —  a  trifling  accident  to  the  steamer 
which  was  bringing  them  from  Como — delayed  them 
at  Varenna,  and  the  charm  of  the  hotel  garden 
overhanging  the  water  kept  them  there  for  the  rest  of 
their  holiday.  Chance  again,  in  the  form  of  a  common 


AUBREY  11 

friend,  introduced  to  them  Stephen  Bulmer,  a  young 
man  of  English  birth  and  Colonial  upbringing,  now 
on  his  way  home  to  settle  in  England  after  years  of 
wandering  at  the  heels  of  an  eccentric  father,  whose 
death  had  but  lately  left  him  very  much  alone  in  the 
world.  His  name  was  already  familiar  to  the  Earnshaws, 
for  they,  like  everybody  else,  had  just  read  his  last 
book,  and  had  discussed  it  with  keen  if  rather  hostile 
admiration.  But  though  neither  of  them  inclined 
towards  accepting  his  view  of  "  The  Uplands  of  the 
Future,"  both  were  quickly  attracted  by  his  personality : 
the  father  found  him  at  once  scientific  and  rarely 
sensitive ;  the  daughter  was  caught  by  his  enthusiasm, 
which  flew  colours  as  gallant  as  her  own,  though  from 
an  alien  masthead.  Secretly  she  likened  this  fearless 
spirit-venturer  to  Shelley,  and  might  have  ended  by 
sailing  far  in  his  company  if  he  had  not  unmistakably 
begun  to  clear  for  action,  and  betrayed  a  mind,  after  an 
acquaintance  of  only  ten  days,  to  leave  her  no  choice 
but  to  fight  or  surrender.  The  obvious  third  course — 
flight — was  forbidden  her  by  pride,  and  by  a  less 
familiar  feeling,  which  she  did  not  attempt  to  define. 
But  time  she  must  have,  and  it  was  gained  by  an  invi- 
tation to  Gardenleigh.  Mr.  Bulmer  was  to  suggest  his 
own  visit  as  soon  as  his  plans  should  be  settled ;  and  they 
were  settled  accordingly,  in  the  shortest  time  that  could 
be  considered  a  reasonable  interval  after  the  parting. 


12  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

This  was  the  crisis  which  was  now  in  Aubrey's 
thoughts :  the  course  of  it  not  yet  understood,  the  end 
of  it  hardly  even  thought  of.  But  there  was  nothing 
strained  or  anxious  in  her  appearance  as  she  sat  upon 
the  lichened  balustrade  and  looked  from  under  her 
arched  hand; — a  figure  for  a  sculptor,  to  symbolize 
perhaps  the  wisdom  of  the  human  soul,  waiting  in 
tranquillity. 


Ill 


AUBREY'S  expectation  was  misdirected.  Her  father, 
when  he  came  at  last,  came  not  from  the  sunset,  but 
from  the  east  avenue,  and  it  was  not  until  he  had 
descended  the  grassy  bank  on  to  the  terrace  and 
advanced  some  way  along  the  gravel  path  that  his  step 
broke  in  upon  her  meditation.  She  turned  suddenly  at 
the  sound,  and  went  to  meet  him  with  a  smile  full  of 
meaning  and  little  appearance  of  embarrassment.  It 
was  not  to  a  cross-examination  that  she  was  going,  but 
to  a  consultation  ;  one  of  her  own  seeking  too,  and  not 
the  first  of  its  kind.  It  is  true  that  on  this  occasion 
the  allies  were  not  so  well  informed  of  each  other's 
views  as  they  had  sometimes  been;  each  had  a  sense 
that  the  affair  was  less  purely  humorous,  less  completely 
a  matter  of  manoeuvring,  than  ever  before.  Mr.  Earn- 
shaw  understood  his  daughter,  so  far  as  such  under- 
standing is  ever  possible  to  a  father,  and  could  not  quiet 
a  dread  lest  this  time  the  conflict  should  prove  to  be 
not  between  two  individual  wills,  but  between  opposing 
forces  in  one  nature,  possibly  too  antagonistic  for  any 
lasting  compromise.  Aubrey's  mood  was  still  more 

13 


14  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

complex ;  she  had  a  campaign  to  plan,  and  needed,  as 
she  had  before  needed,  her  father's  sympathy  and  help ; 
but  she  was  secretly  embarrassed  by  a  new  element  in 
the  problem,  conscious  that  this  time  it  was  security 
for  which  she  was  really  contending,  and  not  necessarily 
the  defeat  of  the  invader.  How  was  she  to  confess  at 
the  council  table  that,  certain  guarantees  once  gained, 
her  defence  might  end  with  open  gates  ? — how  confess 
it  to  an  ally  whom  this  defence  also  involved,  more 
deeply  than  she  cared  to  remember  ?  Yet  hers  was  the 
paramount  interest ;  and  here,  as  in  all  things,  she  was 
absolutely  free  from  the  need  or  the  desire  to  conceal  her 
thoughts  from  him.  They  met  as  those  who  know  that 
in  each  other's  presence  difficulties  will  be  lightened  and 
wits  spurred  to  unforeseen  success. 

"  Well,  my  daughter  ?  " 

"  Well,  my  father,"  she  echoed,  "  I  have  written." 

"  And  what  did  you  say? " 

"  I  said  Friday." 

He  took  her  arm  and  they  walked  slowly  round  the 
terrace  towards  the  garden.  "  This  next  Friday  ?  "  he 
asked.  "  Isn't  that  rather  a  crowded  time  ? " 

"  I  wish  it  to  be  a  crowded  time."  She  had  evidently 
thought  the  matter  out. 

Mr.  Earnshaw  was  in  no  way  old  at  sixty-two ;  his 
mind  worked  quickly.  Was  the  danger  then  over,  he 
wondered,  and  what  remained  only  another  comedy  ? 


FATHER  AND  DAUGHTER  15 

It  was  odd  that  the  idea  brought  something  nearer 
disappointment  than  relief ;  he  became  aware  that  this 
young  man  compared  favourably  with  some  he  had 
known.  But  perhaps  he  was  hasty;  this  was  to  be 
only  a  first  visit,  and  a  lengthening  of  the  campaign 
would  be  an  ominous  step.  He  was  silent  for  a  moment, 
uncertain  what  to  do  next. 

Aubrey  seemed  unconscious  of  his  hesitation.  She 
moved  a  little  forward,  slipping  her  arm  from  his,  and 
stepped  with  one  foot  on  to  the  flower-bed  at  her 
side,  reaching  over  to  pluck  one  of  the  Homer  roses  that 
hung  down  from  the  upper  terrace  wall.  As  she  stood 
there,  half  hidden  among  the  tall  monkshood  and  young 
hollyhocks  of  the  border,  with  her  face  turned  a  little 
upwards  in  pure  profile,  and  her  slender  hand  and 
wrist  lifted  to  the  cluster  of  flowers,  the  setting  sunlight 
covered  her  with  a  soft  glow  that  seemed  rather  to  be 
called  forth  by  her  beauty  than  to  be  in  any  degree  the 
cause  or  the  ornament  of  it.  Her  father,  as  he  waited 
and  looked  at  her,  felt  a  sharp  pang ;  he  was  seized  by 
the  ancient,  irresistible,  hopeless  longing  of  those  who 
watch  their  children  at  certain  moments — the  longing 
for  some  power  like  that  of  the  evening  sunlight,  to 
irradiate,  to  enrich,  to  cover  with  silent  and  infinite 
beneficence ;  an  affection  that,  like  a  still  deep  spring, 
long  known  and  drawn  upon,  after  many  quiet  days 
suddenly  wells  up  as  if  to  overflow  all  customary 


16  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

bounds,  and  as  suddenly  sinks  back  again  within  its 
stone  circle. 

Aubrey  plucked  her  rose,  and  sprang  lightly  back 
on  to  the  path  to  find  him  blinking. 

"Father,"  she  cried,  with  a  rush  of  answering 
tenderness,  "  what  is  it  ? " 

He  smiled.  The  pain  was  gone;  but,  instead  of 
replying,  he  put  his  arm  round  her  shoulders  and  drew 
her  along  the  path. 

"  Nothing  that  /  can  understand  ? "  she  asked, 
looking  playfully  round  at  him ;  it  was  an  old  saying  of 
his,  and  to  quote  it  was  one  of  many  fond  jests  between 
them. 

"  Nothing  that  you  can  understand,"  he  answered  in 
the  same  tone. 

"  Dear  aged  man  !  "  she  said.  "  But  what  an  egotist ! 
I  hoped  you  would  talk  of  my  feelings,  not  your  own." 

He  laughed  with  delight,  and  a  little  pride,  at  her 
frankness. 

"  So  I  will,"  he  cried  gaily,  "  if  you  have  any 
feelings  worth  talking  about." 

"Of  course,"  she  said;  "there  are  my  feelings 
towards  you,  and  my  feelings  towards  my  country." 

"  Oh ! "  he  said,  suspecting  an  evasion ;  "  and  what 
have  those  feelings  to  do  with  our  Whitsuntide  party  ? " 

Aubrey  was  silent  a  moment,  and  looked  down  as  if 
in  reflection. 


FATHER  AND  DAUGHTER  17 

"  The  people  who  are  coining  here,"  she  said,  and 
paused,  turning  to  look  straight  at  him. 

"Yes,  the  people  who  are  coming "  said  he, 

nodding  intelligence. 

"  They  may  be  expecting  some  kind  of  sympathy," 
she  went  on,  "  and  real  sympathy  cannot  be  all  on  one 
side,  can  it  ?  I  like  my  friends  to  understand  me  ; 
I  don't  care  about  being  liked  without  understanding." 

"  Dear  child,"  he  said  gently,  "  I  know  what  you 
mean  ;  but  the  time  may  come,  for  all  that." 

"  What  time  ? "  Her  challenge  trembled  imper- 
ceptibly. 

"  The  time  when  you  may  have  friends  who  will 
not  stay  to  go  very  deeply  into  your  feelings  towards 
me." 

She  turned  quickly  and  flung  herself  into  his  arms. 
"  Father  !  "  she  cried  with  indignant  fondness,  "  I  have 
told  you  so  often — I  have  sung  it  to  you — you  know 
I  have — '  Thy  people  shall  be  my  people.' " 

He  did  remember  the  song,  and  how  passionately 
she  used  to  sing  it ;  but  he  realized  now,  for  the  first 
time,  that  it  had  been  truth  to  her  while  it  was  only 
sound  to  him :  a  strange  failure  of  insight,  but  the 
commonest  of  all  divisions  between  youth  and  age, 
wronging  now  one  and  now  the  other. 

"My  daughter,"  he  said,  kissing  her,  "it  is  not 
I  that  will  ever  entreat  thee  to  leave  me." 

c 


18  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

She  lifted  her  head,  and  answered  with  a  fierceness 
of  resolve  that  seemed  to  look  past  him  at  an  un- 
reasonable world — 

"  As  I  mean  it,"  she  said,  "  I  will  never  leave  you. 
I  love  what  we  have  loved  together,  and  I  hate  those 
who  do  not."  She  turned  towards  the  valley  and  flung 
out  her  hand  unconsciously  towards  it. 

He  smiled  at  her  vehemence.  "  Oh !  oh ! "  he  said, 
"  but  didn't  some  one  say,  '  The  brave  man's  fatherland 
is  all  the  earth '  ?  Gardenleigh  is  home  to  you  and  me, 
but  not  to  every  one." 

"  England/'  she  cried,  "  is  the  home  of  my  country- 
men ;  and  the  past  is  all  men's  fatherland ;  he  shall  not 
deny  that !  "  She  stopped  suddenly,  with  a  little  laugh 
to  herself  at  the  word  which  had  escaped  after  all. 
"Come!"  she  said,  drawing  her  father  along,  "let  us 
go  through  the  rose-walk  and  back." 

At  that  moment  a  great  bell  began  to  sound 
vigorously  in  the  servants'  quarters. 

"  Oh !  I  must  dress  and  do  the  table,"  cried  Aubrey ; 
and  she  was  gone  in  a  moment  through  the  open  door 
of  the  conservatory.  Her  father  followed  slowly, 
looking  at  his  watch  without  seeing  it. 


IV 


"  THERE  are  the  white  cliffs ! "  cried  a  voice. 

Stephen  Bulmer  turned  sharply,  and  was  half 
amused,  and  more  than  half  annoyed,  to  find  himself 
guilty  of  this  instinctive  movement.  The  chance 
fellow-traveller  with  whom  he  was  walking  the  deck 
had  turned  too,  and  in  slow  American  tones  pressed 
home  the  point  which  was  already  pricking  him. 

"You'll  be  feeling  a  little  sentimental,"  he  said. 
"I  guess  those  are  the  white  cliffs  of  Old  England." 
He  spaced  his  words  carefully,  and  spoke  as  one  who 
knew  that  he  was  uttering  a  commonplace  and  enjoyed 
doing  it. 

Stephen  hesitated;  he  wished  to  avoid  the  point, 
but  he  was  not  quite  quick  enough,  and  his  tone  was 
a  very  little  too  loud. 

"Hullo!"  he  said.  "I  had  no  idea  we  were 
travelling  so  fast;  these  turbines  are  really  an  im- 
provement." 

"We'll  soon  whip  you  at  turbines,"  said  the 
American,  in  the  same  quiet,  monotonous  voice ;  "  but 
we'll  still  admire  your  island  home.  I  expect  you  find 
it  a  real  quaint  old  place  to  live  in  ? " 

19 


20  THE   OLD  COUNTRY 

Stephen  grasped  the  opportunity  to  explain,  since 
he  could  not  evade. 

"  I  know  it  very  little,"  he  said.  "  I've  been  away, 
off  and  on,  for  twenty  years — ever  since  I  was  a  boy. 
But  the  quainter  it  is,  the  less  I  shall  like  it.  What 
you  call  quaint  I  call  obsolete." 

The  American,  too,  seemed  to  have  found  an  oppor- 
tunity. He  stretched  an  arm  and  looked  down  upon 
Stephen  as  if  from  a  senatorial  platform. 

"Sir,"  he  said,  "I  understand  you.  This  little 
island  is  what  we  call  your  country  of  origin ;  it  is  not 
your  home ;  it  is  your  domicile,  but  not  your  place  of 
abode.  But " — and  here  his  voice  rose  in  the  rhetorical 
scale — "for  all  that,  you  may  take  it  from  me  that 
you  are  English  from  your  sombrero  to  your  Broadway 
boots.  You  are  bursting  with  insular  pride,  and  you 
are  too  proud  to  show  it.  You  are  worrying  all  the 
time  about  your  little  country;  your  anxiety  is  posi- 
tively ma-ternal.  You  want  to  have  John  Bull  wake 
up;  you  want  to  have  him  hustle  no  end.  Yes,  sir, 
you  want  to  have  him  turn  his  back  on  yesterday  and 
spend  all  of  to-day  running  after  to-morrow." 

Stephen  frowned.  He  had  been  talking  to  this 
stranger  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour ;  he  had  gone  some 
way  forward  with  him,  confided  to  him  his  watchword, 
invited  him  confidently — seeing  his  nationality — to 
share  his  standpoint  while  he  sketched  a  new  plan  and 


THE  WHITE  CLIFFS  21 

elevation  for  the  universe,  and  the  epitome  of  his  own 
conversation  with  which  this  dry  voice  repaid  him  was 
too  like  the  crude  nasal  travesty  of  the  gramophone 
to  be  endurable.  Besides,  the  man  was  lecturing  him, 
and  there  were  people  looking  on;  another  moment, 
and  there  would  be  an  audience. 

"  Let  us  sit  down,"  he  said,  "  if  you  don't  mind." 
The  American  followed  him   to    a    seat    with   a 
humorous,  imperturbable  smile. 

"  We  shall  lose  the  view  of  your  country,"  he  said. 
Stephen   smiled  too.     "It's   not  my   country  I'm 
thinking  of  when  I  talk  about   to-morrow :   it's  the 
world,  the  race,  Man  himself,  one  and  indivisible.     If 
I  spoke  of  any  single  nation,  it  would  be  yours  rather 
than  my  own." 
"Why  so?" 

"Because  obviously  yours  is  the  country  of  the 
future ;  you  are  far  ahead  of  us  already." 

"  I  guess  not,"  said  the  other,  seriously.  "  We  can 
whip  you  nearly  all  the  week,  because  we  are  better 
men ;  but  we  are  not  ahead  of  you." 

"  Then  what  is  '  being  ahead '  ? "  asked  Stephen. 
"  It  is  a  term  which  implies  time." 
"  But  what  has  time  to  do  with  progress  ? "  Stephen 
began  to  argue. 

"Time,"  said  the  American,  calmly  interrupting, 
"  is  just  the  order  in  which  events  eventuate." 


22  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

"  I  see  your  point,"  replied  Stephen,  smiling  in  spite 
of  his  earnestness,  "  and  I  agree ;  but  you  assume  that 
all  men  must  pass  through  the  same  stages." 

"  I  do,"  said  the  other,  gravely,  preparing  to  count 
on  his  fingers.  "  See  here :  babies,  children,  boys,  dudes, 
men,  and  philosophers.  Some,"  he  added,  "put  on 
their  ticket  philosophers  first,  and  men  after ;  but  that 
is  not  part  of  your  theory,  is  it  ? " 

"  Not  just  now,"  said  Stephen,  laughing  outright ; 
"  I  was  speaking  of  nations  :  nations  do  not  all  need  to 
go  through  the  same  phases." 

"  A  phase,"  said  the  American,  "  is  nothing  but  your 
present  size  in  hats.  When  you  are  full  grown  I  guess 
you'll  have  worn  most  sizes,  and  the  biggest  last,  all 
the  way  through." 

"  Half  of  them  misfits,"  Stephen  broke  in  eagerly ; 
"  that's  my  complaint.  If  we  are  to  progress  there 
must  be  no  misfits,  no  clinging  to  cumbrous  fashions, 
among  the  nations  of  the  future." 

His  antagonist  greeted  the  phrase  with  a  twinkle. 
"Your  kind  of  talk,"  he  said,  "was  the  fashion  in 
Premier  City  before  I  went  to  New  York."  He  noted 
Stephen's  frown  with  satisfaction,  and  went  on  in 
the  same  slow  voice,  "  You  are  right  to  feel  insulted, 
and  I  apologize  profusely.  They  are  raw  lads  in 
Premier  City ;  they  do  not  know  that  you  must  have 
a  past  before  you  can  have  a  future." 


THE  WHITE  CLIFFS  23 

Stephen  was  silent;  the  frown  left  his  face,  but 
he  wandered  away  so  far  into  a  maze  of  thought  that 
his  companion's  next  remark  failed  to  call  him  back. 
The  arrival  of  the  Customs'  officer  roused  him  for 
a  moment;  then,  while  the  American  in  his  turn 
argued  over  a  hoard  of  cigars,  he  slipped  away  and 
began  a  solitary  walk  on  the  deserted  space  abaft  the 
funnels. 

Past  and  Future.  To  Stephen  they  were  no  light 
words,  no  hollow  abstractions,  but  Ahriman  and 
Ormuzd,  the  black  and  white  spirits  of  the  world. 
He  had  long  seen  them  standing  one  on  each  side  of 
this  small  Present,  which  is  all  the  foothold  that  we 
have  :  standing  at  the  ear  of  men  and  nations,  the  one 
offering  the  easy  life  of  imitation,  the  futile  luxury 
of  improvidence ;  the  other  urging  an  austere  courage 
and  icy  voyages  in  search  of  the  untrodden  pole.  He 
had  spent  his  life  since  boyhood  in  new  countries,  and 
had  never  found  them  new  enough  for  him  ;  they  were 
still  too  full  of  selfishness,  of  dull  folk  serving  the 
need  or  the  greed  of  a  passing  day.  But  at  least,  he 
had  thought,  they  were  more  free  from  the  deadwood  of 
the  past ;  at  least  they  did  not  worship  decay,  or  endow 
all  effete  things  with  divine  right  and  a  perpetual  pension. 
He  was  returning  to  England  eager  to  take  his  place 
among  the  ardent,  the  advanced,  the  adventurous  :  no 
politician,  but  a  student,  as  he  loved  to  say,  of  the  history 


24  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

of  the  Future.  His  books  had  already  cleared  the  way 
for  him  with  the  reading  public  ;  they  had  the  singular 
merit  of  being  readable,  and  never  less  humorous  than 
earnest.  In  other  ways  he  was  well  fitted  for  his 
chosen  part:  he  was  young  for  his  thirty-two  years, 
he  had  good  health  and  a  sufficient  fortune,  keen 
observation,  a  wide  and  miscellaneous  experience,  few 
prejudices,  and  unusually  few  encumbering  ties,  for  he 
had  been  to  none  of  the  ordinary  places  of  education, 
and  of  his  few  near  relations  not  one  was  known  to 
him  by  sight.  On  him,  at  least,  the  past  had  no  hold. 
He  saw  himself  possessed  of  the  rarest  of  all  opportuni- 
ties, to  come  as  a  stranger  to  his  native  country,  to  see 
her  with  affection  but  without  blindness,  to  judge  her 
life  and  ideas  as  one  who  sees  results  but  not  processes, 
which  are,  he  would  say,  the  explanation  perhaps,  but 
not  the  excuse,  of  failure. 

To  Stephen,  then,  this  American,  upon  whom  he 
had  chanced  at  the  very  threshold  of  his  new  life, 
was  an  unwelcome  paradox.  "  Denaturalized  "  was  the 
word  for  him :  no  doubt  some  aesthetic  weakness  had 
betrayed  him  to  the  last  enchantment  of  the  Middle 
Ages.  Born  in  the  New  World,  a  possible  Ulysses  of  the 
untravelled  future,  he  had  fallen  before  Europe,  the 
Circe  of  our  day,  who  turns  the  eyes  of  men  from 
starry  spaces  above  them  to  earthward  views,  earth- 
digging,  and  low  contentment  with  husks,  So  ran  the 


THE   WHITE  CLIFFS  25 

peroration  which,  half  humorously  and  half  in  earnest, 
he  had  once  played  off  in  Eome  upon  a  co-operative 
travelling  party  of  schoolmasters  who  had  called  upon 
him  for  a  speech. 

The  ship  was  now  in  harbour ;  he  saw  his  an- 
tagonist only  for  one  more  moment.  When  the  two 
men  sighted  one  another  they  were  some  little  way 
apart,  wedged  in  the  shore-going  crowd  at  the  gangway, 
and  moving  slowly  with  the  stream. 

"  A  pleasant  journey,"  said  the  American,  with  his 
calm,  faintly  mocking  voice.  "  I  am  going  to  Canterbury 
for  awhile." 

"  Down  among  the  dead  men,"  Stephen  called  back 
genially. 

"  Not  so  dead,  I  reckon — some  of  them,"  replied  the 
other,  as  he  nodded  again  and  turned  away. 

He  was  a  handsome,  pleasant  fellow,  but  Stephen 
felt  somehow  quite  content  to  see  him  go. 

"We  don't  even  know  each  other's  names,"  he 
reflected;  "and  we  should  never  agree,  so  that  is 
over." 

It  was  over — for  the  American,  who  probably  never 
spent  another  thought  upon  his  companion  of  an  hour ; 
but  for  Stephen  it  was  far  from  being  over.  When 
he  had  taken  his  place  in  the  London  train, 
settled  comfortably  down  in  his  corner,  and  tossed  the 
Canterbury  pilgrim,  as  it  were,  headlong  from  the 


26  -   THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

window,  he  became  aware  that  it  was  only  the  man, 
and  not  the  idea,  that  he  had  flung  away.  The  one  he 
would  never  see  again ;  the  other  he  knew  would  meet 
him  only  too  soon  in  a  far  more  embarrassing 
antagonism. 


FRIDAY  afternoon  had  come,  and  Stephen  was  once 
more  in  the  train.  His  three  days  in  London  had  been 
too  busy  for  much  consecutive  thought ;  and  the  imme- 
diate future  remained  wrapped  in  a  vague  but  rather 
luminous  haze.  He  was  certain  of  his  own  wishes,  and 
not  much  troubled  by  the  fact  that  he  was  quite  uncer- 
tain of  everything  else.  Instinct  told  him  rightly  that 
plans  would  be  worse  than  useless.  The  only  way  for  a 
man  to  make  love  is  to  make  himself  loved ;  and  there 
is  no  system  of  tactics  for  that.  Inspiration  is  the  one 
counsellor  ;  and  if  the  hour  has  struck,  inspiration  will 
not  be  wanting.  So  he  dreamed  rather  of  what  he  was 
going  to  see  than  of  what  he  was  going  to  do. 

Still,  the  needle  must  swing  to  the  pole ;  and  of  all 
that  lay  before  him,  his  thought  came  continually  back 
to  one  point.  He  was  to  meet  again  the  woman  he 
loved ;  but  he  realized  that  it  would  be  a  woman  he 
had  never  seen.  In  Italy,  Aubrey  and  he  had  been  on 
common  ground ;  far  from  home  and  friends,  set  down 
in  the  most  cosmopolitan  region  in  Europe,  they  had  all 
but  forgotten  the  existence  of  centuries,  nations,  and 
newspapers.  Mundane  affairs  had  become  as  distant  as 

27 


28  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

the  hills  around  them,  and  more  immaterial  than  the 
poetry  which  supplied  the  greater  part  of  their  conver- 
sation. It  was  a  time  that  could  surely  never  be  for- 
gotten, he  thought,  by  either  of  them ;  but  neither  could 
it  be  repeated  or  resumed.  In  her  own  country,  in  her 
own  home,  among  her  own  people,  he  would  find  a  dif- 
ferent Aubrey,  with  whom  his  friendship  must  be  built 
up  afresh  almost  from  the  beginning.  He  must  adven- 
ture not  merely  in  a  foreign  land,  with  unknown  cus- 
toms, politics,  and  tongue,  but  in  a  region  as  wholly 
undiscovered  as  the  moon's  other  face,  where  the  con- 
tours are  beyond  imagination,  and  the  lights  and  values 
are  not  those  visible  from  earth.  He  did  not  doubt  his 
own  feeling ;  he  loved  her  for  that  which  was  herself, 
and  not  an  aspect  of  her.  But  he  doubted  whether  the 
favour  he  had  enjoyed  was  not  more  accidental.  He 
had  been  tolerated,  perhaps  welcomed,  as  an  unrelated 
fact.  How  would  he  now  appear  when  he  became  a 
figure  in  the  familiar  landscape  ?  A  contrast  he  knew 
he  must  present.  Would  the  colour-scheme  cry  out 
against  him  as  a  discord  ? 

He  did  not  spare  himself  an  even  more  anxious 
thought.  Hitherto  he  had  been  unopposed,  possibly 
because,  after  all,  he  had  made  but  little  advance,  pos- 
sibly because  Mr.  Earnshaw  had  not  honoured  him  with 
any  kind  of  apprehension.  But  he  was  now  to  face  a 
whole  firing-party,  and  it  was  unlikely  that  every  one 


IN  THE  TRAIN  29 

of  them  would  load  with  blank.  He  would,  in  any 
event,  be  often  at  a  disadvantage,  often  conspicuous  as 
an  outsider,  often  involved  in  a  conflict  of  opinion  with 
the  majority.  Against  his  own  sex  he  was  armed.  He 
who  is  not  at  least  as  sure  of  his  own  wits  and  manners 
as  of  any  other's  he  may  meet,  has  not  the  breeding  for 
the  lists.  But  against  a  woman's  whisper  a  man  may 
easily  be  helpless,  especially  when  that  whisper  has — 
what  he  cannot  hope  for — the  right  of  private  audience 
and  of  unrestrained  expression.  He  dreaded  a  power  of 
which  he  knew  nothing — a  power  behind  the  throne. 

The  course  of  these  reflections,  briefly  indicated  here 
on  a  scale  of  about  one  inch  to  the  mile,  occupied 
Stephen  for  some  time,  and  ended  very  abruptly.  His 
eyes,  which  had  been  looking  through  the  open  window, 
and  past  the  suburban  landscape  into  so  perplexed  a 
future,  came  back  for  a  moment  to  the  interior  of  the 
carriage,  and  rested  idly  upon  the  fellow-traveller  who 
sat  opposite  to  him.  His  thoughts  were  still  far  away, 
and  he  was  at  first  less  than  half  conscious  of  the  im- 
pressions which  his  brain  had  already  been  registering. 
A  lady — dark,  handsome,  intellectual — probably  eight 
and  twenty  years  of  age — dressed  with  unusual  distinc- 
tion. His  eyes  dropped  again,  but  in  so  doing  they  fell 
upon  her  hand.  It  was  a  singularly  nervous  and  deli- 
cate hand — almost  too  delicate  for  its  load  of  rings ;  and 
it  lay  idly  upon  a  silvery  dust-cloak,  holding  an  open 


30  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

letter,  which  had  apparently  brought  a  deep  reverie 
upon  the  reader. 

Stephen  had,  of  course,  no  intention  of  prying — 
indeed,  the  letter  was  for  him  upside  down ;  but  even 
in  that  position  the  handwriting  could  not  be  mistaken, 
and  the  mere  sight  of  it  affected  him  like  the  passage  of 
an  electric  shock.    His  face  flushed  suddenly,  and  he 
must  have  made  some  instinctive  movement,  for  the 
lady's  deep-brown  eyes  awoke  from  their  study,  crossed 
his  own  glance  and  followed  it  downwards  to  the  letter. 
She  smiled,  and  Stephen  felt  himself  at  once  in  presence 
of  a  knowledge  of  the  world  before  which  his  superiority 
of  age  completely  disappeared.     She  spoke,  and  the 
impression  was   deepened;   for  her  voice  and  manner 
were  the  most  finished  combination  of  sensitive  cour- 
tesy, conscious  humour,  and  armour-plated  convention- 
ality that  he  had  ever  encountered  in  his  life.     He 
dwindled  from  the  stature  of  the  thirties  to  the  attitude 
of  the  child  who  has  been  brought  down  for  the  first 
time  to  dessert,  and  stands  by  the  long  dinner-table, 
dazzled  by  the  lights  and  dresses,  and  abashed  by  the 
formalities  of  a  society  which  is  entirely  beyond  his 
experience  of  life. 

"May  I  ask,"  said  the  lady,  "if  you  are  by  any 
chance  on  your  way  to  Gardenleigh  ? " 

"  I  am,"  Stephen  replied,  trying  hard  to  recover  him- 
self, but  failing  to  achieve  more  than  a  defensive  position, 


IN  THE  TRAIN  31 

"  So  am  I,"  said  the  lady,  "  so  let  us  save  time  by 
introducing  ourselves."  Her  little  laugh  was  the  per- 
fection of  diplomatic  art.  Stephen  felt  himself  gently, 
but  irresistibly,  shepherded  in  the  intended  direction. 
"  My  name,"  she  continued,  "  is  Eleanor  Eyder,  and 
you,  I  think,  must  be  Mr.  Bulmer." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  and  wondered  at  the  lamb-like 
sound  of  his  own  utterance. 

Miss  Kyder,  however,  was  apparently  not  relying 
on  him  for  conversation :  she  was  busy  collecting  her 
letters,  sorting  them,  destroying  some,  and  replacing  the 
rest  in  the  dressing-case  on  the  seat  beside  her. 

When  she  came  to  the  last  letter — it  was  the  one 
she  had  been  reading — she  looked  quickly  up  at 
Stephen. 

"  I  ought  to  have  added,"  she  said,  "  that  I  am  a 
very  intimate  friend  of  Miss  Earnshaw,  and  that  I 
heard  from  her  this  morning  that  you  and  I  were  to 
travel  down  by  the  same  train  to-day." 

The  change  in  her  manner  was  almost  imper- 
ceptible ;  but  he  understood  that  he  was  being  treated 
with  frankness  and  even  with  friendliness.  The 
moment  was  not  one  to  be  let  slip. 

"  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  something  about  her," 
he  said. 

Miss  Ryder  received  the  remark  as  if  she  expected 
and  approved  it. 


32  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

"  I  wonder  what  I  could  tell  you.  You  know  what 
she  looks  like,  you  know  what  she  reads,  and  a  good 
deal  of  what  she  thinks,  I  expect." 

"I  know  what  she  is,"  he  replied  quietly,  "and 
something  of  what  she  looks  forward  to,  but  nothing  of 
what  she  remembers.  I  want  to  know  where  she  comes 
from — mentally,  I  mean." 

"England." 

"Yes;  she  is  thoroughly  English — I  suppose,"  he 
added,  remembering  his  own  long  exile. 

"  She  has  the  national  character  at  its  best — exactly 
the  right  mixture  of  thought  and  feeling.  You  may  not 
agree  with  me  there."  She  spoke  significantly,  and 
waited  for  him  to  reply ;  but  he  was  lost  in  a  half-guess 
at  her  meaning,  and  not  without  apprehension.  "  One 
of  the  things  we  did  not  so  much  care  about  in  your 
book,"  Miss  Eyder  continued,  "  was  a  passage  in  which 
you  spoke  contemptuously  of  people  who  think  in  order 
to  feel,  instead  of  feeling  in  order  to  think.  In  England 
we  know  that  we  do  not  think  enough ;  but  we  have  no 
doubt  that  we  err  on  the  right  side." 

"  I  remember  the  sentence,"  he  said,  "  and  I  am  in- 
clined to  stand  by  it.  My  prayer  for  the  coming  race  is 
George  Meredith's  '  More  brain,  0  Lord,  more  brain.' " 

Her  eyes  lit  up  at  the  quotation.  "I  agree,"  she 
said.  "  But  that  does  not  save  you,  does  it  ?  if  feeling 
is  still  the  end,  and  thought  the  means  to  right  feeling." 


IN  THE  TRAIN  33 

"  Feeling,"  he  replied,  "  always  seems  to  me  a  rather 
selfish  end  to  set  before  ourselves;  thought  is  more 
likely  to  be  concerned  with  the  good  of  others." 

"  That,"  she  said  instantly,  "  is  another  point  in 
your  book  which  did  not  find  favour:  you  are  so 
ready  to  sacrifice  the  individual  to  the  community; 
you  would  make  men  no  better  than  bees." 

"  I  am  not  the  first  to  take  the  hive  for  the  ideal 
commonwealth." 

"No;  and,  if  I  may  say  so,  I  think  your  ideal 
would  not  succeed  much  better  than  the  rest  in 
producing  happiness." 

"  Surely  self-sacrifice  may  be  happiness  ? " 

"But  it  is  only  a  fool's  happiness  if  it  makes  no 
one  else  happy.  We  owe  service  to  the  State  only 
because  the  State  serves  the  individual.  More  brain 
would  teach  your  bees  that ;  and  what  would  become 
of  the  hive  then  ? " 

"  I  gather,"  he  said,  laughing,  "  that  Miss  Earnshaw 
does  not  keep  bees." 

"  No,"  she  replied,  laughing  too,  but  insistent ;  "  no, 
and  she  never  will.  She  could  not  live  with  bees ;  she 
is  too  human — more  intensely  human  than  any  one  I 
know." 

Stephen  would  gladly  have  pursued  the  inquiry 
further,  but  at  this  moment  the  train  stopped,  and 
several  new  passengers  made  their  way  into  the 

D 


34  THE   OLD  COUNTRY 

compartment.     Miss  Ryder  sat  back  in  her  corner,  and 
took  out  a  book.    Evidently  the  time  for  conversation 
was  over,  but  during  the  remainder  of  the  journey  she 
spoke  to  him  now  and  again,   explaining  landmarks 
and  commenting  on  the  beauty  of  the  June  meadows 
through  which  they  were  passing.     Stephen,  though  a 
little  grieved  for  his  book,  which  he  felt  deserved  a 
better  defence,  was  full  of  admiration  for  his   com- 
panion's readiness,  and  flattered  by  the  interest  which 
she  had  shown  in  him.     Perhaps  she  had  only  been 
trying    him,    perhaps    she    had    not  gone  beyond  a 
benevolent  neutrality;  but,  then,  her  neutrality  might 
so  very  naturally  have  been  hostile.     In  any  case,  he 
was  only  at  the  beginning  with  her,  and  she  had 
made  the  beginning  very  pleasant.     He  was  in  every 
way  content  when  the  name  of  Selwood  came  in  sight, 
upon  a  somewhat  narrow  and  dingy  platform. 


VI 


THE  train  had  scarcely  ceased  to  move  when  Stephen, 
turning  to  the  door,  found  himself  face  to  face  with 
a  cockaded  footman.  The  man  addressed  himself  to 
Miss  Ryder,  whom  he  evidently  knew  by  sight.  She 
turned  to  Stephen — 

"  Miss  Earnshaw  and  her  father  are  in  the  town," 
she  repeated,  "and  we  are  to  pick  them  up  on  our 
way;  but  there  is  another  guest  to  be  found  first — 
Mr.  Laverock,  the  painter.  There  he  goes,"  she  added, 
as  a  short,  sturdy  figure  encumbered  with  an  armful 
of  hand-baggage  made  its  way  towards  the  bridge  by 
which  the  line  was  crossed.  "If  we  follow  him  the 
luggage  will  be  put  over  afterwards ;  the  cart  is  sure 
to  be  here." 

Outside  the  station  they  found  Mr.  Laverock  stand- 
ing by  the  door  of  a  waggonette,  introduced  themselves, 
and  were  quickly  driving  into  the  town,  which  lies, 
for  the  most  part,  on  the  steep  sides  of  a  small  natural 
amphitheatre.  As  they  descended  into  the  market- 
place, which  forms,  as  it  were,  the  bottom  of  the  cup, 
Stephen  looked  round  with  a  beating  heart.  This  was 
the  stage  on  which  he  was  to  see  Aubrey  upon  her 

35 


36  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

second  appearance;  but  there  was  scarcely  a  living 
creature  in  sight,  and  he  was  disappointed  to  find  the 
scene  so  ill-provided  with  picturesque  elements.  It 
was  with  no  regret  that  he  saw  the  footman,  who  had 
entered  a  stationer's  shop  in  search  of  his  mistress, 
return  alone  and  remount  the  box-seat  with  some  fresh 
instruction  to  the  coachman.  The  horses  started  again, 
and  dashed  with  a  spurt  up  the  opposite  slope  to  that 
by  which  they  had  entered,  turning  sharply  to  the  left 
at  the  top  of  the  hill  into  a  shady  road  which  skirted 
a  long  bank  above  the  winding  river.  It  was  here  that 
they  overtook  the  walkers.  The  two  men  dismounted, 
and  Stephen,  without  any  feeling  of  real  life,  found 
himself  shaking  hands  with  a  lady  who,  on  her  part, 
made  not  the  faintest  shade  of  difference  between  her 
greetings  to  him  and  -to  her  other  guest.  Her  eyes 
looked  past  them  both  at  Miss  Eyder,  by  whose  side 
she  was  the  next  moment  seated,  while  Stephen  heard 
his  own  voice  assenting  with  unmeaning  readiness  to 
Mr.  Earnshaw's  proposal  that  the  three  men  of  the 
party  should  continue  the  journey  up  to  the  house  by 
"  the  walking  way." 

A  wave  of  the  hand,  and  the  carriage  disappeared 
round  a  bend.  Mr.  Earnshaw  and  his  two  companions 
left  the  road  by  a  stile,  crossed  two  small  streams,  and 
passed  through  a  half-open  farm  gate  into  a  footpath 
green  with  moss  and  overhung  with  small  trees.  It  led 


A  RIDDLE  OP  MEMORY  37 

them  towards  the  face  of  a  steep  southern  slope,  blazing 
with  buttercups  and  edged  with  hanging  woods;  but 
before  they  reached  the  ascent  they  passed  the  entrance 
of  a  glade  on  the  left,  where  the  ground  fell  from  a 
long  spinney  to  the  stream  they  had  just  crossed,  in 
a  curve  so  unexpected  and  so  beautiful  that  the  painter 
stopped  short  with  an  exclamation  of  pleasure.  Stephen 
was  at  the  moment  a  few  steps  behind  the  other  two ; 
he  joined  them,  immediately,  but  made  no  comment, 
nor  did  he  reply  to  any  of  the  enthusiastic  appeals  of 
his  fellow-guest.  It  was  not  the  beauty  of  the  place 
which  struck  him  into  puzzled  silence;  it  was  its 
absolute  familiarity.  This  part  of  England  was  un- 
known to  him  before  to-day;  but  somehow,  in  a  far 
country,  in  a  picture,  in  a  dream,  he  had  seen  this 
spot  not  once,  but  many  times.  Yes,  many  times  he 
had  looked  with  the  same  sense  of  repeated  pleasure 
from  the  sunny  meadow  to  the  deep  shadow  of  the 
hanging  beechwood,  under  the  edge  of  whose  long 
sweep  he  had  passed  and  repassed  in  a  hundred  summer 
hours  of  forgotten  delight. 

He  gave  up  the  puzzle  at  last,  and  remembered  the 
claim  of  good  manners. 

"  It  is  very  beautiful,"  he  said  to  his  host.  "  I  was 
wondering  why  I  felt  as  if  I  had  been  here  before." 

"I  know  the  feeling  well,"  said  Mr.  Earnshaw, 
pleasantly.  "  It  is  a  very  vivid  and  curious  one." 


38  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

"I  have  heard  of  it,"  said  Stephen,  "but  it  has 
never  come  to  me  before  to-day ; "  and  he  lapsed  into 
thought  again. 

From  time  to  time  snatches  of  the  conversation 
beside  him  crossed  his  consciousness,  like  clouds  cross- 
ing an  April  sky  and  bringing  each  its  faintly 
stirring  breeze. 

"This  path,"  he  heard  Mr.  Earnshaw  saying,  as 
they  breasted  the  steepest  of  the  hill,  "was  once, 
though  you  will  find  it  hard  to  believe,  the  principal 
approach  to  Gardenleigh.  Under  the  turf  is  the 
metalling  of  the  Norman  road.  It  had  the  merit  of 
directness :  the  modern  carriage  road  is  nearly  twice 
as  long." 

At  the  top  Laverock  exclaimed  again.  They  were 
at  the  entrance  of  a  great  avenue  running  across  a 
wide  green  table-land  which  seemed  to  be  shut  in  on 
every  side  by  woods  that  dipped  down  unseen  slopes. 

"  How  old  are  these  trees  ? "  he  asked  admiringly. 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Earnshaw,  "  they  are  not  Norman, 
I'm  afraid ;  but  they  are  fairly  old,  and  no  doubt  they 
are  the  successors  of  much  older  avenues  in  the  same 
place." 

The  painter's  eye  roamed  over  the  level  of  rough 
grass. 

"  What  a  place  for  a  gallop  ! "  he  said.  "It  is  like  a 
natural  Circus  Maximus" 


A  BIDDLE  OF  MEMORY  39 

"  Yes,"  said  his  host,  "  or  a  tiltyard.  Aubrey  likes 
to  imagine  that  it  was  here  John  de  Marland  trained 
his  horses  before  he  entered  for  the  jousts  at  St. 
Inglevere." 

"  Ha  ! "  exclaimed  Laverock,  "  is  there  a  John  de 
Marland  in  Froissart  ?  " 

"  He  was  the  last  Marland  of  the  five  who  lived 
here." 

"  What  happened  to  him  at  St.  Inglevere  ? " 

"  Oh,  nothing  out  of  the  ordinary,"  replied  his  host. 
"  He  was  a  young  squire  then,  and  no  doubt  a  mere 
child  to  the  great  French  champions.  But  he  ran  his 
three  courses  with  the  best  of  them,  and  was  only 
knocked  over  at  the  third." 

"  Good  man,"  said  Laverock.  "  I  remember  what 
Froissart  says  of  some  of  them:  'they  were  noble 
jousters,  and  feared  neither  pain  nor  death.' " 

They  had  now  crossed  the  down  and  were  de- 
scending the  reverse  slope  among  groups  of  great  trees. 
Beneath  them  lay  the  lakes  and  the  church  on  its 
island,  and  far  away,  from  the  opposite  side  of  the 
valley,  Gardenleigh  looked  across  to  them,  its  gray 
stone  gables  and  mullions  all  yellow  in  the  light  of 
the  westering  sun. 

"There  is  the  house,"  said  Mr.  Earnshaw,  "and 
here  was  the  old  house  which  my  father  pulled  down 
fifty  years  ago." 


40  THE  OLD   COUNTRY 

He  pointed  to  a  grassy  shelf  at  their  feet,  where 
a  stone  monument  stood  not  far  from  the  water-side : 
a  plain  block  of  squared  stone  from  the  old  mansion, 
raised  on  small  moss-grown  steps. 

Stephen,  from  where  he  stood  on  the  steep  path, 
looked  over  it  down  the  placid  level  of  the  lake,  and 
felt  once  more,  with  a  trouble  he  could  not  understand, 
the  haunting  certainty  that  he  had  passed  that  way 
before,  upon  what  errand  and  in  what  company  he 
could  not  for  his  life  remember. 

Ten  minutes  afterwards  they  reached  the  house, 
and  the  feeling  had  passed  from  his  recollection. 


VII 


STEPHEN  dressed  that  evening  more  quickly  than  was 
necessary,  and,  entering  the  drawing-room  at  five 
minutes  to  eight,  found  himself  the  first  to  appear 
there.  Laverock  followed  shortly  after,  and  in  answer 
to  a  question  from  him,  described  the  party  which  was 
about  to  sit  down  to  dinner. 

"  Our  host  and  hostess,  and  our  two  selves — four ; 
Miss  Eyder — five ;  Hillary,  Captain  Earnshaw,  the  only 
son  of  the  house,  and  his  wife,  Lady  Alice ;  and  the 
eighth  is  one  of  the  married  daughters,  Mrs.  Oldham. 
She  is  the  wife  of  John  Oldham,  the  sculptor,  a  friend 
of  mine,  and  I'm  down  here  to  paint  her  portrait  for 
him.  He  is  away  on  business  in  Paris.  They  make 
more  of  his  work  over  there  than  our  stupid  old  public 
lias  ever  done  yet ;  but  his  day  is  coming,  and  mean- 
time he  is  uncommonly  lucky  to  have  been  allowed 
to  marry  one  of  these  girls." 

"  Allowed !  "  said  Stephen.    "  Why  do  you  say  that  ? " 
"Well,    in    England    the    daughters    of    deputy- 
lieutenants  are  not  usually  allowed  to  marry  artists, 
are  they  ?     I  remember  when  I  told  the  news  of  this 
engagement   to  old  Lady  Wallow,  who  is  a  distant 


42  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

connection  of  the  Earnshaws,  she  said  to  me,  'A 
sculptor!  How  very  odd;  but  he  doesn't  sell  his 
carvings,  I  hope  ? '  '  Never ! '  I  shouted.  She  couldn't 
think  why  I  laughed  so  much,  but  she  was  quite 
reassured." 

Stephen  smiled,  but  the  subject  of  Mrs.  Oldham's 
marriage  opened  up  more  than  one  uncomfortable  line 
of  thought. 

"  So  we  are  only  eight,"  he  said.  "  I  thought  we 
should  be  more ;  there  are  only  three,  then,  for  me  to 
make  acquaintance  with." 

"  There'll  be  half  a  dozen  more  to-morrow,"  said 
Laverock,  lowering  his  voice  suddenly,  as  the  four 
ladies  came  in  with  a  brisk  rustle,  and  were  followed 
by  their  host  and  his  son.  Introductions  were  made, 
and  the  procession  formed. 

"There  are  no  places  to-night,"  said  Aubrey,  as 
they  reached  the  dining-room  ;  "  but  if  Mr.  Bulmer  will 
go  round  to  the  other  side  and  Mr.  Laverock  come 
here,  we  shall  be  right." 

Stephen  thought  otherwise.  Not  only  was  he  on 
"  the  other  side "  to  Aubrey,  but  he  was  not  even 
opposite  to  her ;  the  table  being  a  large  one  and  almost 
round,  he  was  so  far  removed  that  although  she  would 
probably  overhear  much  of  what  he  said  to  others,  he 
could  hardly  address  a  word  to  her  directly.  He 
thought  of  the  little  tables  in  their  Italian  hotel,  and 


THE  PAINTER'S  ARGUMENT  43 

felt  that  circumstances  were  against  him.  Having 
brought  Miss  Kyder  in  to  dinner,  he  duly  began  a 
conversation  with  her,  but  it  was  one  with  no  prin- 
ciple of  motion  in  it,  and  stopped  almost  immediately. 
Laverock  on  the  other  side  engaged  Aubrey,  and  drew 
the  attention  of  all  the  party  with  an  enthusiastic  de- 
scription of  the  walk  they  had  enjoyed  that  afternoon. 
When  he  paused  for  a  moment,  Lady  Alice  turned  to 
Stephen. 

"  What  did  you  think  of  it,  Mr.  Bulmer  ?  Which 
way  did  you  come  ? " 

"  Over  the  down." 

"  And  past  the  old  house  ? — what  is  left  of  it." 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Earnshaw,  "we  came  straight 
from  the  old  to  the  new,  which  I  thought  would  be 
the  most  congenial  way  for  him." 

Stephen  smiled.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "I  liked  that 
way  of  coming." 

"  All  good  historians  do,"  said  Mr.  Earnshaw,  with 
a  twinkle.  "  It  is  the  scientific  way." 

"And  what  did  you  think  of  the  old?"  asked 
Lady  Alice.  "Not  the  house,  of  course,  but  the 
church." 

"  I'm  afraid,"  said  Stephen,  "  I  did  not  see  much  of 
the  church." 

"  Oh !  "  said  Anne  from  the  other  side. 

There  was  really  nothing  more  than  disappointment 


44  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

or  remonstrance  in  her  voice,  but  to  Stephen  it 
seemed  to  match  with  a  very  faintly  disdainful 
expression  which  he  had  already  noticed  on  her  face. 

"/  saw  it,"  said  Laverock,  in  a  voice  of  cheerful 
self-commendation ;  "  it  has  been  tidied  up  a  good  deal, 
but  I  saw  a  north  door  as  I  looked  back  from  this  side 
— a  really  perfect  door,  like  a  private  entrance  to  the 
Middle  Ages." 

"  Mr.  Bulmer  will  have  plenty  of  time  to  see  the 
church,"  said  Eleanor,  turning  to  Stephen  as  she  spoke. 
"  Did  you  like  the  down  ?  You  know  the  top  of  it  is 
called  Aubrey's  tilting-yard  ? " 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  with  an  inward  blessing  on  her 
for  helping  him  out.  "  Mr.  Earnshaw  told  us  about  the 
gentleman  in  Froissart.  I  wish  I  knew  the  book." 

Laverock  was  still  with  them.  "When  I  have 
time,"  he  said,  "  I'll  paint  it :  the  green  background  of 
well-articulated  trees,  the  silken  pavilion  in  front,  the 
heralds  in  cloth  of  gold  and  armorial  tabards,  the 
champions  with  vizors  down,  the  squires  in  scarlet  with 
striped  legs,  the  ladies  all  in  samite  and  cramoisy,  and 
the  horses  in  long  sweeping  caparisons." 

"  No,  no ! "  cried  Aubrey ;  "  you've  got  it  all  quite 
wrong.  No  one  supposes  that  kind  of  thing  ever  went 
on  there ;  it  was  only  Johnny  Marland's  training- 
ground.  You  must  imagine  just  a  few  stable-lads  with 
the  horses,  and  the  squire  trying  to  get  them  to  gallop 


THE  PAINTER'S  ARGUMENT  45 

towards  each  other  full  tilt  without  swerving ;  no 
armour  or  pageantry,  but  just  what  you  might  see 
to-morrow  if  Hillary  took  his  horses  up  there  for  a 
breathing." 

"  Thank  you,  no,"  said  Hillary.  "  If  I  must  take  a 
toss,  I  prefer  the  fox ;  "  and  every  one  laughed. 

Mr.  Earnshaw  was  waiting  for  a  word  more  with 
Laverock. 

"  Aubrey  and  you,"  he  said,  "  will  never  agree 
about  that  kind  of  thing;  she  is  always  laughing 
at  what  the  old-furniture  dealers  call  '  ye  quaint 
medaevial  style.' " 

"But  surely,"  pleaded  Laverock,  "in  the  Middle 
Ages  they  were  mediaeval  ?  " 

"  They  were  not  medcevial,"  said  Aubrey,  "  they 
were  alive." 

"  But  quaint  ?  "  he  persisted. 

"  No,  alive ;  and  a  man's  life  does  not  reside  in  his 
clothes,  except  in  the  studio,  perhaps,"  she  added  in  a 
mischievous  and  audible  aside  to  her  brother. 

"  I  say,"  murmured  Hillary,  while  the  rest 
laughed,  "  what  price  the  lay  figures  now  ? " 

"  A  hit !  "  cried  I^averock,  laughing  too ;  "  but  what 
price  the  Eifle  Brigade  without  their  green  jackets? 
and  they  are  quaint  enough." 

Aubrey  dashed  to  the  relief  of  her  brother's  regi- 
ment. 


46  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

"  Not  a  bit,"  she  said ;  "  they  are  business-like 
now.  When  they  have  long  been  discarded,  they  may 
come  to  be  called  quaint — by  the  inhabitants  of  the 
future.  Ask  Mr.  Buhner." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Stephen,  brightening  at  the 
challenge.  "  If  the  inhabitants  of  the  future  take  my 
advice  they  will  look  forward  and  not  back;  then 
nothing  will  appear  quaint." 

"  Nothing  will  appear  at  all,  I  should  say,"  rejoined 
Laverock. 

"  How  so  ? "  asked  Stephen  very  quietly,  in  the 
manner  of  one  who  is  anxious  not  to  miss  a  chance  of 
a  fight. 

"  Apart  from  your  book,"  said  Laverock,  "  which  I 
have  not  yet  read,  looking  forward  in  this  world  is  a 
mistake.  You  can  never  see  the  future  till  it's  the 
present,  and  you  can't  see  it  well  till  it's  the  past ;  and 
it  seldom  is  either." 

"  What  he  means,"  explained  Hillary,  "  is  that  you 
are  like  the  man  who  spends  his  time  in  a  dark  room, 
looking  for  what  isn't  there." 

"  Misquotation !  "  cried  Eleanor. 

"  As  you  observe,"  said  Hillary,  with  composure,  "  it 
is  an  original  remark." 

"It's  very  good,  anyhow,"  said  Laverock,  "and  I 
should  like  to  take  the  vote  of  the  company  upon  it. 
Lady  Alice,  would  you  rather  that  I  painted  you  a 


THE  PAINTER'S  ARGUMENT  47 

picture  of  those  who  have  lived  at  Gardenleigh  long  ago, 
or  those  -who  are  some  day  going  to  live  there  ?  Which 
would  be  the  most  worth  having  ?  " 

"  That  depends  on  your  imagination,  doesn't  it  ?  " 

"  It  does ;  and  my  imagination  will  only  work  on  the 
concrete,  it  can  do  nothing  with  the  abstract ;  no  art  can." 

"  I  am  not  an  artist  in  your  sense,"  said  Stephen ; 
"  my  art  is  the  art  of  government,  of  ordering  mankind 
in  a  reasonable  society.  The  future  is  the  only  possible 
canvas  for  that ;  and  the  whole  point  of  my  pictures  is 
that  they  are  definite,  and  deal  with  the  concrete." 

"  Well,"  said  Laverock,  laughing,  "  I  don't  think  / 
should  make  much  of  a  living  if  I  painted  only  portraits 
of  the  unborn." 

"  I  give  up  that  profession,  then,  and  turn  architect. 
You  won't  deny  that  a  man  may  build  for  the  future  ? " 

"  But  he  can't  build  the  future:  he  has  no  bricks." 

Stephen  was  now  on  his  own  territory ;  the  attack 
was  one  which  he  was  ready  to  meet ;  but  he  hesitated, 
for  the  argument  might  easily  be  too  long  and  serious 
for  a  dinner-table.  Eleanor  saw  his  difficulty  in  a  flash, 
and  swept  in  to  carry  him  forward. 

"  Before  you  say  that,"  she  replied  to  Laverock, 
"  you  must  read  Mr.  Bulmer's  book ;  it  has  a  preface 
specially  intended  for  you.  I  think  I  can  put  the 
argument,"  she  continued,  turning  to  Stephen,  "  and  if  I 
go  wrong  you  can  correct  me.  Mr,  Laverock  says  we 


48  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

know  something  of  the  past  because  we  have  evidence, 
and  nothing  of  the  future  because  there  can  be  no 
evidence  of  what  does  not  yet  exist.  Mr.  Buhner's 
point  is  that  the  building  which  we  call  the  past  is  no 
longer  standing  or  visible ;  it  is  only  from  small  frag- 
ments, or  from  indications  and  inferences,  that  we 
reconstruct  it.  The  new  building  is  not  yet  visible 
either,  but  there  are  plenty  of  indications  and  inferences 
by  which  it  may,  he  thinks,  be  constructed  in  imagi- 
nation." She  looked  towards  Stephen. 

"  Exactly,"  he  said,  "  and  with  the  same  scientific 
certainty ;  when  you  know  the  causes  you  know  the 
consequences." 

'You  ought  to  be  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer," 
remarked  Hillary ;  "  you  would  know  what  a  new  duty 
would  produce  to  a  penny — and  who  would  pay  it." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Stephen,  in  the  same  tone ;  "  but 
no  politics  for  me." 

"  Still,"  said  Mr.  Earnshaw,  "  Hillary's  argument  is 
worth  something.  When  you  speak  of  'knowing  the 
causes,'  you  must  mean  knowing  all  the  causes.  Can 
you  possibly  do  that  ? " 

"  No  more  possibly,"  said  Laverock,  "  than  you  can 
guess  all  the  people  who  are  to  be  at  a  party ;  that  is 
why  you  generally  don't  go  yourself." 

"  Do  you  always  refuse  a  dinner  invitation  ? "  asked 
Hillary,  quietly. 


THE  PAINTER'S  ARGUMENT  49 

Every  one  laughed  ;  Laverock  had  a  reputation  as  a 
diner  out.  But  he  was  not  disconcerted. 

"  I  should  certainly  refuse,"  he  said,  "  if  there  was 
a  chance  of  finding  no  dinner  when  I  got  there.  Mr. 
Bulmer  can't  guarantee  that  there  will  ever  be  any 
future  at  all." 

"A  painter,"  replied  Stephen,  "cannot  guarantee 
that  there  will  ever  be  any  picture  at  all ;  but  he  gets 
commissions." 

"  He  doesn't  get  paid  in  advance — not  this  painter," 
said  Laverock;  "and  I  don't  see  why  we  should  pay 
for  a  posterity  which  may  never  adorn  our  mansions 
after  all." 

"You  must  have  a  working  hypothesis,"  said 
Stephen,  "  for  any  kind  of  life ;  there  is  reason  in  sacri- 
ficing yourself  for  even  a  hypothetical  posterity,  but 
there  can  be  none  in  sacrificing  anything  for  the  past. 
What  can  you  do  for  the  generations  of  the  dead ;  what 
can  you  be  to  them,  or  they  to  you  ?  Nothing." 

"  Nothing  ?  "  said  Aubrey,  in  a  low  tone  that  asked 
for  no  comment  or  reply. 

The  ladies  rose  and  left  the  room,  and  Stephen  felt 
that  he  had  never  known  a  conversation  begin  so  well 
and  end  so  badly. 


VIII 

AT  eleven  o'clock  on  the  following  morning  Stephen 
was  pacing  slowly  up  and  down  in  front  of  the  house. 
Across  the  sunny  path  of  the  terrace  drifted  warm 
floods  of  heavy  perfume  ;  they  came  from  the  huge 
wistaria,  whose  thick  twisted  stems  seemed  to  have 
completely  supplanted  the  pillars  of  the  verandah, 
while  its  pale  purple  clusters  hung  like  a  living  screen 
between  them.  The  sky  was  cloudless  overhead;  the 
air  was  exquisitely  fresh,  and  rang  in  every  direction 
with  the  sweet  small  songs  of  birds.  Far  down  the 
slope  the  lake  sparkled  beneath  an  imperceptible  breeze 
with  innumerable  ripples  of  golden  laughter.  Stephen 
wandered  to  the  sundial,  and  stood  for  some  time  idly 
looking  down  upon  it.  The  morning  was  so  filled  with 
the  sense  of  dreamy  contentment  that  he  felt  a  kind 
of  sympathy  for  this  silent  recorder  of  sunny  hours, 
and  forgot  to  pass  criticism  upon  so  primitive  a  method 
of  ascertaining  the  time  of  day.  As  he  leaned  there, 
with  half-closed  eyes,  he  distinguished  among  the 
thousand  trills  and  chirrups  with  which  the  place  was 
echoing  one  song  more  strenuous  and  passionate  than 
all  the  rest.  It  came  from  the  hillside  below  him, 

50 


THE  SONG  OP  A  BIRD  51 

where  a  titlark  was  soaring  and  falling  above  a  haw- 
thorn bush  with  the  ceaseless  motion  of  a  fountain. 
Again  and  again,  as  he  watched,  it  sprang  into  the 
air  from  the  topmost  spray,  fluttered  straight  upwards 
with  quick,  eager  notes  until  it  reached  the  height 
of  its  desire ;  and  then,  spreading  its  wings  like  a  tiny 
parachute,  floated  down  with  long,  piercing  cries  of 
ecstasy  to  the  very  branch  from  which  it  had  started. 

"  What  are  you  looking  at  ? "  said  Mr.  Earnshaw's 
voice  behind  him. 

Stephen  pointed  to  the  hawthorn,  from  which  the 
bird  was  once  more  fluttering  up  as  if  driven  by  the 
desperate  joy  of  some  forlorn  hope. 

"  How  long  do  you  suppose  it  has  been  doing  that," 
he  asked,  "  in  exactly  the  same  spot  ? " 

"  Oh,"  said  his  host,  with  a  smile,  "  from  father  to 
son,  for  a  thousand  years,  I  dare  say ;  custom  dies  hard 
in  an  out-of-the-way  place  like  this." 

"  You  are  laughing  at  me,"  replied  Stephen,  laughing 
himself ;  "  there  are  some  customs  which  will  never 
die." 

"  Song  and  prayer,"  said  Mr.  Earnshaw,  "  if  those 
can  be  called  customs." 

"  I  think  we  agree ;  they  will  never  die  themselves, 
but  surely  their  customary  forms  will  change." 

"  Very  gradually,"  replied  Mr.  Earnshaw ;  "  so 
gradually  as  to  escape  the  feeling  of  change.  Association 


52  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

is  a  large  part  of  their  essence;  for  their  full  beauty 
they  need  long  time  and  a  fixed  place." 

"  There  have  been  exiles,"  said  Stephen,  "  who  have 
changed  their  sky,  but  not  their  hearts." 

"  They  have  thought  so,  and  they  were  right  to  lay 
stress  upon  the  idea ;  but  it  was  rather  like  consoling 
one's  self  for  loss  of  food  by  reflecting  that  the  appetite 
remains." 

"  They  satisfied  the  appetite  in  other  ways." 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Earnshaw,  "I  think  not;  they 
lived  on  what  they  had,  but  were  not  satisfied.  I 
suppose  we  both  had  the  Americans  in  mind ;  would 
you  say  they  had  lost  nothing  by  their  departure  from 
their  ancestral  home  ?  They  have  made  a  nation,  but 
they  made  it  in  the  wilderness ;  many  of  them,  when 
they  enter  an  English  cathedral,  recognize  that  they 
have  instincts  which  nothing  in  their  own  country  can 
satisfy." 

Stephen  would  have  questioned  this,  but  he  was 
hampered  by  the  recollection  of  his  American  friend 
on  pilgrimage  to  Canterbury.  He  changed  ground 
accordingly. 

"  I  have  heard  a  Scottish  shepherd  say  that  no 
service  was  so  grand  as  that  on  the  open  hillside." 

"  The  hillside  where  his  people  had  worshipped  for 
centuries." 

"  Yes ;   but  he   spoke  particularly  of  the  solemn 


THE  SONG  OF  A  BIRD  53 

grandeur  of  nature ;  he  thought  more  of  that  than  of 
any  church." 

"  His  experience  of  churches  was  probably  very 
limited,"  replied  Mr.  Earnshaw.  "I  once  heard  a 
famous  preacher  courageously  tell  a  kirk  full  of  High- 
landers that  they  were  wrong  on  this  very  point;  he 
described  the  solemnity  and  beauty  of  a  great  ritual 
as  incomparable  with  anything  they  had  known,  and 
he  ended,  I  remember,  with  these  words :  '  It  is  true 
that  God  dwells  not  only  in  temples  made  with  hands ; 
but  in  these  our  ancient  churches  there  is  that  which 
no  hand  can  make  or  unmake :  they  are  builded  less 
of  stones  than  of  memories,  and  man's  highest  hope 
can  be  nothing  if  it  be  not  itself  a  memory.'  " 

"  Eobert  Bridges  must  have  suggested  that  to  him," 
said  Stephen ;  "  but  he  says  it  of  Adam  and  Eve,  and 
I  have  always  thought  he  took  a  rather  too  historical 
view  of  Eden." 

"He  would  be  the  last  to  do  that,"  said  Mr. 
Earnshaw.  "  But  come,"  he  added,  "  why  should  we 
stand  still  to  talk  ?  If  you  have  nothing  better  to  do, 
let  me  take  you  dewn  to  the  church  yonder;  it  will 
illustrate  what  I  have  been  trying  to  say." 

They  walked  down  through  the  garden  to  a  wicket 
gate  in  the  fence  which  separated  it  from  the  park, 
and  as  they  paused  for  a  moment  to  remove  the  chain 
by  which  it  was  secured  Stephen  saw,  to  his  surprise, 


54  THE  OLD  COUNTEY 

that  the  church  and  the  small  lake  which  surrounded 
it  had  disappeared ;  only  the  tops  of  the  neighbouring 
elms  were  visible  above  a  sudden  rise  in  the  undulating 
slope.  As  they  advanced  up  the  narrow  path  it  came 
in  sight  again,  and  he  saw  for  the  first  time  the 
beautiful  north  door  of  which  Laverock  had  spoken 
with  such  enthusiasm.  It  was  very  narrow,  with 
a  pointed  head  in  the  form  of  a  trefoil,  and  led  directly 
into  the  chancel,  being  intended,  as  Mr.  Earnshaw 
explained,  for  the  sole  use  of  the  priest.  At  this 
moment  it  was  wide  open,  and  through  it  could  be 
heard  the  sound  of  the  organ,  played  by  a  skilled  hand. 


IX 


THEY  passed  between  the  two  small  lakes  and  over  the 
little  bridge  by  which  the  island  is  now  united  with 
the  western  shore.  Mr.  Earnshaw  lifted  the  string 
netting  which  hung  before  the  open  porch,  and  Stephen 
found  himself  inside  the  smallest  church  he  had  ever 
seen.  The  cool,  dim  interior  was  refreshing  by  contrast 
with  the  noonday  glare  outside,  and  a  breath  of  faint 
perfume  came  from  the  font,  which  stood  close  to  the 
door,  and  had  been  newly  filled  with  flowers.  Near  it, 
and  quite  at  the  back  of  the  church,  sat  Eleanor  Eyder, 
listening  to  Aubrey's  chants,  which,  now  that  the 
practice  was  over  and  the  little  choir  departed,  rolled 
uninterruptedly  from  the  chancel  in  a  full,  deep  current 
that  seemed  like  a  reverie  made  audible. 

The  two  men  sat  down  silently,  and  Stephen  fixed 
his  eyes  upon  the  organ  chamber ;  but  the  spell  of  the 
music  gained  upon  him  imperceptibly,  and  in  a  very 
short  time,  though  he  was  quite  unconscious  of  the  fact, 
his  own  outward  existence  and  that  of  Aubrey  herself 
had  passed  entirely  from  his  thoughts.  It  was  as 
though  the  life  within  him  no  longer  looked  out 
through  the  windows  of  sense,  but  withdrew  into  an 
inner  and  more  real  world,  where  he  was  led  from  depth 

55 


56  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

to  depth  of  emotion,  and  brought  from  remorse  to  hope, 
from  endurance  to  passionate  joy,  with  an  ever-growing 
sense  of  strength  and  purification.  Things  and  events 
had  become  meaningless,  action  was  one  with  feeling, 
and  every  feeling  was  intensified  beyond  measure,  for  it 
was  no  longer  the  emotion  of  an  individual,  but  the 
consciousness  of  a  vast  unison — a  unison  so  infinite  that 
it  seemed  to  gather  into  the  beating  of  one  heart  the 
agony  and  the  aspiration  of  all  the  generations  of  men 
"Wave  after  wave,  the  music  rose  and  fell,  and  rose  and 
fell  again,  with  the  same  long,  rolling  cadence,  as 
though  it  had  begun  before  memory  and  would  continue 
beyond  time. 

But  at  last  it  ceased,  and  Stephen  came  back  to  the 
material  world.  As  his  outward  consciousness  returned, 
he  found  that  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  a  mysterious,  long- 
robed  figure,  which  seemed  to  be  receding  from  his 
sight  along  a  stately  chamber,  in  which  the  tracery  of  a 
golden  canopy  stood  out  against  a  background  of  deep 
ruby  colour.  The  face,  which  was  still  turned  towards 
him,  was  already  too  dim  for  the  features  to  be  dis- 
tinguishable, but  everything  else  about  it,  from  the  out- 
ward curves  of  the  crozier  in  its  hand  to  the  chequered 
floor  at  its  feet,  had  a  clear  and  gem-like  brightness. 

"  The  windows  are  the  best  thing  in  the  church,"  he 
heard  Mr.  Earnshaw  saying.  "There  is  no  older  or 
finer  glass  in  Somerset." 


IN  THE  CHURCH  57 

"  Who  is  that  ? "  asked  Stephen,  with  his  eyes  still 
riveted  on  the  robed  figure. 

"  Unknown.  An  English  bishop  and  saint,  as  you 
see  by  the  halo  and  crozier.  It  is  a  pity  the  face  has 
perished." 

Stephen  was  silent ;  he  had  still  the  curious  feeling 
that  the  face  had  only  become  invisible  a  moment  ago. 
He  seemed  very  nearly  to  remember  what  it  had  been 
like  before  it  faded. 

"  The  abbot  and  the  king  behind  you  have  suffered 
in  the  same  way,"  said  Mr.  Earnshaw. 

They  turned  to  the  west,  and  Stephen  saw,  without 
surprise,  that  the  figures  in  that  window  too  had  not 
only  the  same  faded  faces,  but  the  same  strange  look  of 
life,  in  spite  of  their  stiff  and  antiquated  garments. 

The  rest  had  little  interest  for  him,  for  he  knew 
nothing  of  ecclesiastical  antiquity.  He  was  shown  the 
little  aumbry  with  its  oaken  door,  the  figures  of  the 
monk  and  nun  on  the  chancel  walls,  whose  clasped 
hands  once  supported  the  Lenten  Veil,  the  Jacobean 
pulpit — a  hexagon  of  brown  oak  carved  in  tiny  classical 
arcades — and  the  chantry,  with  its  broad  arch  and 
slender  crockets.  These  things  were  but  curiosities; 
they  had  for  him  no  touch  of  reality.  But  he  looked 
once  more  at  the  figure  in  the  east  window,  and  was 
glad  to  find  that  the  pleasure  it  gave  had  remained  with 
him. 


58  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

He  followed  his  host  towards  the  door,  where 
Aubrey  and  Eleanor  were  waiting  for  them. 

"  Has  Mr.  Bulmer  seen  the  brass  ? "  asked  Aubrey. 

She  moved  forward  as  she  spoke,  and  Stephen  fol- 
lowed her  across  to  the  north  side  of  the  church,  where 
a  single  brass  tablet  broke  the  bare  white  space  of  the 
wall.  The  metal  was  bright,  and  the  red  and  black  of 
the  lettering  fresh  and  clear.  He  looked  at  it  with  a 
confused  eye,  and  in  the  first  moment  perceived  only 
that  it  was  not  a  memorial  of  any  recent  event.  From 
the  centre  of  it  an  unfamiliar  date  stared  out  at  him. 

"  But  it  looks  quite  new,"  he  said. 

"  It  is,"  replied  Aubrey.     "  We  put  it  up  last  year." 

She  stood  reading  it  in  silence,  and  Stephen  knew 
that  he  was  following  her  word  for  word. 

IN   MEMORY   OF 

SIR  HENRY  DE  MAR  LAND 

OF  GARDENLEIGH,   KNIGHT, 

WHO   FOUNDED   THIS   CHURCH 

TO   THE   HONOUR   OF   ST.    MARY   THE    VIROIX 

IN   THE   YEAR  OF   OUR   LORD 

MCCCII 
THE   RECTOR   OF   GARDENLEIGH 

COVENANTING   THEREUPON 
FOR   HIMSELF   AND   HIS   SUCCESSORS 

THAT   THE   SAID   SIR   HENRY 
HIS   ANCESTORS   AND   POSTERITY 
SHOULD  RECEIVE   THE   BENEFIT 
OF   ALL   PRAYERS  AND  ORISONS 
TO   BE   SAID  OR   SUNG  HEREIN 
FOB   EVER. 


IN  THE  CHURCH  59 

It  is  probable  that  at  another  time  Stephen  would 
have  passed  this  inscription  by,  or  numbered  it  among 
the  curiosities  which  had  so  little  interest  for  him. 
But  no  such  indifference  was  possible  now;  he  could 
not  doubt  that  there  was  something  here  which  was 
near  to  Aubrey's  heart,  and,  simple  though  the  words 
were,  he  perceived  as  he  read  them  for  the  second  time 
that  they  had  been  composed  not  only  with  care,  but 
with  insight,  and  had  sprung  of  the  very  mood  into 
which  the  deep,  unending  roll  of  the  chant  had  so  lately 
thrown  him.  He  seemed  to  hear  the  music  again  in 
the  final  words — the  very  cadence  of  the  prayers  and 
orisons  "  to  be  said  or  sung  herein  for  ever." 

"I  am  sure  you  wrote  that,"  he  said  quietly  to 
Aubrey;  and  he  saw  as  he  turned  to  speak  that  she 
was  holding  Eleanor's  hand  in  hers. 

"No,"  she  said;  "the  words  are  the  words  of  the 
original  deed.  We  don't  write  like  that  now." 

"After  six  hundred  years "  he  began,  and 

stopped. 

Aubrey  turned  away,  and  they  all  left  the  church. 
For  once  she  had  done  him  an  injustice. 


OUTSIDE,  they  parted  company :  the  ladies  returned 
by  the  direct  path  to  the  house,  while  Mr.  Earnshaw 
invited  Stephen  to  continue  the  walk  with  him  and 
make  the  circuit  of  the  lake. 

"  I  hope  I  have  not  tired  you,"  he  began  ;  "  but  we 
have  so  little  to  show  our  guests  here,  that  every  one 
has  to  see  the  church." 

"  I  enjoyed  the  music  more  than  I  can  say,"  replied 
Stephen,  "  and  I  thought  the  church  beautiful ;  but  I 
did  not  venture  to  praise  it,  because  I  know  absolutely 
nothing  about  these  things." 

"  You  have  had  no  opportunities  ;  but  you  will  have 
to  study  churches  now,  I  suppose  ?  They  come  into 
your  period." 

"  Into  my  period  ? "  said  Stephen,  smiling.  "Do  they  ? " 

"  You  have  not  abolished  religion  in  the  future — at 
least  so  far  as  you  have  gone  at  present  ? " 

"  Oh  no ;  but  these  churches  are  the  embodiment  of 
a  Church — with  a  capital  C — and  I  am  not  sure  about 
Churches  of  that  kind." 

"  I  noticed  that  in  your  book  you  treated  the  subject 
with  what  I  must  call  a  masterly  inactivity." 

60 


AMONG  THE  CHURCHES  61 

Stephen  looked  up ;  the  glance  he  met  was  humorous, 
but  none  the  less  kindly. 

"  To  be  frank,"  he  said,  "  I  do  not  know  what  to  do 
about  the  Church." 

Mr.  Earnshaw  smiled  insistently.  "  But  you  are 
bound  to  know,"  he  said;  "it  is  your  business  to 
know." 

Stephen's  heart  quickened ;  he  had  all  but  reached 
this  point  a  dozen  times  before,  both  with  Mr.  Earnshaw 
and  with  Aubrey  herself;  he  had  felt  it  to  be  dangerous 
ground,  and  had  extricated  himself  every  time  with 
painful  and  not  very  successful  efforts.  But  he  realized 
that  the  difficulty  was  not  one  which  could  be  perma- 
nently avoided ;  it  formed  part  of  the  crisis  which  he 
had  come  here  to  face ;  his  quest  led  him  directly 
through  it,  and  there  could  be  no  way  round.  He 
stopped  short  in  the  path. 

"  This  is  not  a  bad  place  for  a  rest,"  said  his  host, 
pointing  to  the  stump  of  a  fallen  poplar  by  the  water- 
side, and  stepping  across  the  grass  to  take  his  seat 
upon  it. 

Stephen  followed,  but  remained  standing  by  him, 
and  mechanically  driving  the  ferrule  of  his  stick  into 
the  ground  at  his  feet. 

"The  truth  is,"  he  began  tentatively,  "I  am  so 
uncertain  of  my  audience." 

"  Afraid,  do  you  mean,  of  offending  the  public  ?  " 


62  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

"  No,  not  quite  that.  I  can  face  a  prejudice,  or  1 
should  never  write  at  all.  But  on  this  point  there  are 
so  many  prejudices  to  face  at  once ;  it  is  like  arguing 
with  the  hydra  in  a  hundred  languages  at  the  same 
time." 

"  Argue  with  me,  then  ;  I  have  only  one  head." 

"  But  in  what  language  ?  " 

"In  any  language,  so  long  as  it  is  serious,"  said 
Mr.  Earushaw.  "  I  am  a  Churchman,  but  you  need 
not  fear  that  my  orthodoxy  will  be  shocked  by  any 
reasonable  argument." 

Stephen  drew  a  long  breath  and  plunged.  "  Well," 
he  said,  "  I  try  to  see  everything  in  as  generalized  a 
form  as  possible  before  admitting  it  to  my  new  world. 
Religion  I  can  place  there,  because  it  is  a  universal,  an 
inclusive  element;  but  a  Church  is  particularist  and 
exclusive  by  its  very  nature.  A  reasonable,  scientifically 
ordered  community,  if  it  were  given  anything  like  a  fail- 
start,  would  never  allow  such  an  influence  to  get  a  hold 
at  all." 

"  I  follow  you,"  said  Mr.  Earnshaw :  "  the  Churches, 
taken  all  together,  are  a  terrible  satire  on  the  idea  of  the 
Church.  But  all  Christendom  has  belonged  to  one  or 
another  of  them.  Why  is  this,  do  you  think  ?  and  why 
should  this  be  not  the  case  in  the  future  ? " 

"  Men  have  always  desired  incorporation ;  it  is  in 
their  nature  to  wish  to  have  something  larger  behind 


AMONG  THE  CHURCHES  63 

them — some  great  body  to  which  they  can  refer  them- 
selves." 

"  Why  should  that  natural  feeling  cease  ?  " 

"  Because  it  is  in  reality,  like  patriotism,  not 
essential." 

"  Patriotism  has  certainly  changed,"  said  Mr.  Earn- 
shaw;  "it  is  less  concentrated  now  than  it  probably 
was  in  more  tribal  days,  and  I,  for  one,  rather  regret  the 
fact.  But  supposing  that  patriotism  must  widen  until 
it  ultimately  disappears,  I  think  you  are  overlooking  a 
real  difference  in  using  it  as  an  analogy  here.  Patriot- 
ism is  essentially  defensive.  It  will  be  impossible,  you 
say,  in  a  world-state,  because  a  world-state  can  have 
no  enemies.  But  a  spiritual  communion  among  men 
can  never  be  useless,  for  in  the  spiritual  world  man  will 
always  be  at  war." 

"  I  should  not  myself  use  the  word  '  war,' "  replied 
Stephen;  "it  seems  to  imply  personal  opponents — 
Powers  and  Spirits  of  the  nethermost  abyss." 

"I  had  no  such  intention,"  said  Mr.  Earnshaw;  "  I 
was  thinking  of  the  strenue  militantes  of  Thomas  a 
Kempis — the  warriors  who  have  overcome  the  world. 
You  don't  deny  that  life  is  a  conflict,  in  which  man 
needs  all  the  help  he  can  find  ? " 

"  No.  But  surely,  if  it  is  to  be  a  force  stronger  than 
his  own,  he  must  seek  it  from  a  higher  power,  not  from 
his  fellow-man." 


64  THE  OLD  COUNTKY 

"  Then  we  are  all  to  live  entirely  separate  lives — 
each  in  his  narrow  cell  for  ever  laid  ?  " 

"No,  no,"  said  Stephen,  earnestly;  "that  is  the 
opposite  of  my  belief.  I  look  to  see  men  helping  one 
another  as  they  have  never  helped  before ;  but  it  will 
be  mainly  in  the  ways  of  science — in  clearing  away 
obstacles  and  tangles  and  dangers,  and  giving  a  fair 
field  to  '  original  goodness/  which  is,  at  least,  as  natural 
and  as  visible  as  original  sin.  I  do  not  say  that  good- 
ness may  not  be  fostered,  too,  by  fellowship ;  but  I  do 
say  that  the  fellowships  which  at  present  exist  for  that 
object  seem  to  have  done  far  more  harm  than  good." 

"  It  is  difficult  to  think  without  enthusiasm,"  said 
Mr.  Earnshaw,  "  of  the  cause  of  science  and  the  service 
by  which  it  has  been  forwarded.  But  hitherto  it  has 
done  but  little  for  the  clearing  of  man's  spiritual  path, 
because  it  has  hardly  yet  recognized  the  existence  of 
spiritual  phenomena  at  all.  It  recognizes  flowers,"  he 
continued,  pointing  to  the  water-lilies  which  covered  the 
bay  at  their  feet,  "  because  they  are  substantial ;  they 
appeal  to  the  common  senses  of  all  men ;  they  float  on 
water,  grow  on  stalks,  and  are  rooted  in  mud.  But  it 
turns  away  from  our  mental  experiences,  as  incon- 
sistently, it  seems  to  me,  as  though  it  should  refuse  to 
recognize  those  slender  bars  of  turquoise  that  you  see 
coming  and  going  upon  the  water-lilies — mere  flashes  of 
momentary  light  from  nowhere." 


AMONG  THE  CHUKCHES  65 

"  Yes,"  said  Stephen,  "  dragon-flies  and  dreams 
should  all  come  in.  But  the  scientific  people  have 
developed  a  dogmatism  of  their  own ;  they  have  founded 
the  Materialistic  Church,  and  it  is  showing  the  charac- 
teristic faults  of  all  Churches." 

Mr.  Earnshaw  was  silent  for  some  time,  looking  out 
across  the  lower  expanse  of  the  lake.  Stephen  sat 
quietly  down  by  his  side,  and  wondered  what  was  the 
train  of  thought  which  he  had  set  in  motion.  If  he 
had  only  known  it,  he  had  been  fortunate  beyond  his 
best  hopes.  His  chief  wish  had  been  that  he  might  not 
say  anything  that  would  jar  fatally  upon  his  host,  or 
reveal  an  impassable  gulf  between  his  own  feelings  and 
those  which  were  probably  Aubrey's  as  well  as  her 
father's.  His  success  had  been  greater  than  this ;  he 
had  touched  Mr.  Earnshaw's  memory,  and  set  in  motion 
one  of  those  currents  of  vivid  feeling  which  bring  to  the 
old  so  quick  a  sympathy  with  anything  spoken  in  the 
language  of  their  own  youth. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  he  said — and  Stephen  was  startled 
by  the  unexpected  change  in  his  voice — "  thirty-five  or 
forty  years  ago  I  too  had  my  quarrel  with  the  Churches. 
My  father  was  a  Protestant  of  the  Protestants,  and  the 
set  in  which  I  was  brought  up  seemed  to  me,  when  at 
last  I  came  to  think  of  religion  apart  from  discipline, 
to  have  no  conception  of  religion  at  all.  Their  views 
were  historical,  rational,  practical,  and  moral ;  they 

F 


66  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

treated  life  as  one  prolonged  meeting  of  an  ethical 
society.  Their  proceedings  bored  me  as  a  boy,  and  as 
an  undergraduate  I  came  to  find  them  guilty  of  some- 
thing like  a  fraud.  They  had  enthusiasm,  or  at  least 
fervour,  and  they  professed  to  worship  a  superhuman 
will ;  but  their  creed  was  an  arid  one :  it  offered  no 
mitigation  of  the  sandiness  of  life,  no  wells  for  the 
spirit  in  the  desert  of  material  facts.  At  the  moment 
of  my  revolt  I  fell  in  love  with  a  very  young  girl, 
whose  father,  while  he  lived,  had  been  the  head 
of  an  old  Eoman  Catholic  family.  Her  mother 
evidently  liked  me,  and  encouraged  my  visits,  in 
the  plainly  expressed  hope  that  I  might  become 
a  convert  to  the  true  faith.  For  a  time  I  was 
extremely  happy;  I  read  the  mystics,  and  felt  that 
I  had  found  the  inheritance  which  had  been  concealed 
from  me." 

"  And  then  ?  "  said  Stephen,  after  a  pause. 

"  There  was  no  '  then ' ;  the  crisis  which  would 
have  confirmed  me  never  came.  My  father,  who  was 
the  shrewdest  man  I  have  ever  known,  and  had  an 
iron  nerve,  not  only  made  no  opposition  to  my  wishes, 
but  of  his  own  accord  offered  me  an  adequate  provision 
for  marriage.  There  was,  consequently,  no  haste  upon 
the  other  side;  my  instruction  proceeded,  and  for  a 
whole  year  I  saw  the  Eoman  Church  mirrored  in  the 
life  of  a  household,  and  especially  in  the  unconscious 


AMONG  THE  CHURCHES  67 

mind  and  conversation  of  a  girl  of  seventeen.  No 
doubt  the  view  presented  to  me  was  a  crude  one, 
but  it  was  a  view  from  the  practical  side ;  and  when 
my  mind  had  had  time  to  recover  its  analytical  powers, 
I  felt  as  if  I  had  been  deceived  by  a  mirage.  That 
is  not  my  opinion  now.  I  do  not  doubt  that  in  the 
Roman  communion,  as  in  any  other,  the  living  water 
may  be  found;  but  I  still  see  the  practical  dangers 
involved  in  the  system  as  clearly  as  when  they  first 
astonished  and  repelled  me.  The  first  principle  of 
Romanism  is  surrender :  readily  accepted  by  the 
feminine  temperament,  and  welcome  even  to  the 
masculine  when  presented  under  the  aspect  of  service  ; 
but  I  found  that  the  surrender  demanded  is,  in  practice, 
surrender  to  a  human,  not  a  Divine,  will,  and  the 
service  is  primarily  the  service  of  a  human  power. 
Then  the  mystery,  the  perpetual  remembrance  of  the 
unseen  world,  which  attracted  me  so  strongly  at  first, 
seems,  in  the  Roman  mind,  to  pass  downwards  into  a 
still  more  fatal  perversion.  The  centre  of  the  system 
is  not  the  thing  itself,  the  Life  upon  which  all  spiritual 
life  must  feed,  but  the  symbol  through  which  that  Life 
is  to  be  attained ;  and  this  symbol  cannot  be  used  except 
by  the  hand  of  a  miraculously  gifted  priesthood.  The 
Presence  of  the  Universal  is  not  only  localized,  but 
controlled ;  and  the  desire  for  it  is  made  a  lever  for 
subjecting  the  whole  life  of  mankind  to  the  direction 


68  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

of  a  caste — with  what  results  may  be  seeii  in  the 
history  of  nations  and  of  science." 

"  Ah !  "  exclaimed  Stephen  ;  "  but  surely  we  have 
done  with  the  Middle  Ages  ? " 

"When  you  say  that — I  know  what  you  mean — 
you  are  putting  a  part  for  the  whole.     Our  forefathers 
were  no  more  unanimous  than  we  are,  and  no  more 
submissive.     The  claim  of  the  true   Churchman  was 
the  same  then  as  now  :  equally  strong  in  logic,  equally 
fatal  in  practice  ;  and  contested,  at  any  rate  in  England, 
in  much  the  same  way  as  it  is  contested  now.     The 
struggle  must  go  on ;  the  elements  of  conflict  are  the 
diverse  characters  of  men.     There  will  always  be  these 
types — the  purely  secular  mind,  which  looks  only  to 
the  practice  of  life  in  an  obviously  material  world ;  the 
nature  which   desires  above  all    to  unite  itself  with 
the  Divine,  and  accepts  a  Church  as  a  means  to  that 
end;  and   that  fanatic    character,   in  which  religious 
feeling  is  overlaid  by  a  disproportioned  devotion  to  the 
Church   herself.     You   remember  it  was   said  of  the 
Emperor  Ferdinand,  that  if  a  priest  and  an  angel  were 
to  visit  him   at  the  same  moment,  he  would  make 
obeisance  to  the  priest  first,  and  to  the  messenger  of 
Heaven  afterwards;    and  Ferdinandism   is  not  dead 
yet,  even  in  the  English   Church.     No,   the  Middle 
Ages  are  not  past ;  but  they  were  never  present  in  the 
way  you  imagine.     The  church  you  have  just  seen — 


AMONG  THE  CHURCHES  G9 

this  little  church  of  Gardenleigh — is  a  proof  of  it.  The 
founder,  Sir  Henry  de  Marland,  may  have  been  a 
religious  man,  but  he  was  certainly  a  stout  anti-clerical, 
and  I  don't  suppose  the  parson  stood  up  to  him  out 
of  church  any  better  than  a  poor  modern  rector  does 
to  the  man  to  whom  he  owes  his  living,  especially 
when  the  patron  is  a  county  magnate  and  a  distinguished 
soldier,  as  Marland  was." 

"I  have  not  yet  got  used,"  said  Stephen,  "to 
your  way  of  speaking  of  these  ancient  inhabitants. 
To  me  their  names  suggest  stiff  stone  figures  on 
dilapidated  tombs;  to  you  they  seem  to  be  in  no 
way  different  from  the  people  in  this  year's  red 
book." 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Mr.  Earnshaw,  standing  up,  "  very 
different ;  I  know  so  much  more  about  them.  People 
in  the  red  book  are  mostly  names  to  me;  I  cannot 
bring  them  before  my  eyes  as  human  beings.  But 
these  Marlands,  for  instance — they  lived  here  where 
I  live,  and  faced  all  my  problems  before  me;  their 
records  are  a  little  condensed,  but  quite  as  informing 
as  any  that  I  shall  leave  behind  me.  I  will  show  you 
the  book  of  the  manor  if  you  like :  my  notebook  of 
dates  and  documents." 

"  It  will  be  a  new  line  for  me,"  replied  Stephen, 
politely ;  "  I  have  not  dealt  much  in  dates  or  documents 
hitherto." 


70  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Earnshaw,  as  they  walked  on; 
"  the  Future  is  not  strong  in  dates." 

He  laughed,  Stephen  thought,  with  an  easier  manner 
than  usual,  and  the  rest  of  the  walk  passed  pleasantly 
in  more  trivial  conversation. 


XI 

IN  the  mean  time  Aubrey  and  Eleanor  had  returned  to 
the  garden. 

"  Let  us  not  go  indoors  yet,"  said  Aubrey,  as  they 
reached  the  gate;  "the  hour  before  lunch  is  all  we 
have  left.  When  the  others  arrive  we  shall  never  get 
a  moment  to  ourselves." 

Eleanor  was  an  expert  in  all  the  diplomatic  arts : 
she  could,  without  the  least  hesitation,  read  off  a  cipher 
message,  or  translate  her  own  thoughts  into  the  form 
of  language  most  suited  to  her  hearer's  mood.  As  they 
turned  into  the  rose-garden  and  walked  slowly  beneath 
the  long  alley,  she  carried  on  both  these  processes  at 
once.  She  began  by  opening  the  conversation  directly 
upon  Stephen,  for  this  was  obviously  the  topic  for 
which  an  opportunity  was  desired. 

"  Mr.  Bulmer  enjoyed  your  music,  I  think ;  it  was 
lucky  they  happened  to  come  in  just  then." 

Aubrey  sighed. 

"  Why  do  you  sigh,  dearest  ? " 

"  Life  is  such  a  tangle." 

"  There's  only  one  way  of  unravelling  a  tangle,  is 
there  ?  You  must  lay  out  the  threads  as  clearly  as  you 

71 


72  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

can,  and  see   which  way  they  go,  before  you  try  to 
pull  them." 

"  I've  done  it,"  said  Aubrey,  with  a  face  of  humorous 
despair ;  "  and  the  clearer  they  came  out  the  worse  I 
felt." 

Eleanor  knew  exactly  what  this  meant.  "  I  don't 
understand,"  she  said  gently. 

"  You  will  very  soon,"  replied  Aubrey,  leaning 
heavily  upon  her  arm.  "  Eleanor,"  she  said,  with 
sudden  emphasis,  "  what  do  you  think  of  him — not  in 
detail,  but  what  do  you  feel  ?  " 

"I  like  him." 

"How  much?" 

"  I  like  him  a  good  deal  now,  and  I  can  imagine 
liking  him  a  good  deal  more  when  I  have  known  him 
longer." 

Aubrey  was  silent.  "  The  worst  of  it  is,"  she  said 
reflectively,  after  a  pause,  "  that  I  have  known  him  so 
much  longer  than  you  have." 

Again  Eleanor  played  the  simpleton.  "Then  you 
don't  agree  with  me  ? "  she  asked. 

Aubrey  shook  her  arm.  "  You  old  serpent,"  she 
said ;  "  you  know  what  I  mean,  and  I  know  what  you 
mean.  You  want  me  to  tell  you  the  difference  between 
his  feelings  and  mine,  if  there  is  any.  It  is  a  horrible 
thing  to  explain,  and  this  is  just  the  time  for  it — half- 
past  twelve  in  glaring  daylight." 


TERMS  OF  SURRENDER  73 

"  Let  us  wait — do  let  us  wait — there  will  be  time 
this  evening." 

"  No,  I  must  say  it  while  I  see  it.  It  is  all  there — 
before  my  eyes,"  said  Aubrey,  raising  her  left  hand  and 
clutching  the  air.  "  Here  is  a  man  who  likes  me ;  and 
I  like  him,  at  any  rate,  better  than  I  did.  He  thinks 
that  enough ;  I  do  not." 

"  It  is  enough  for  most  people." 

"  You  know  it  cannot  be  enough  for  me ;  I  am  not 
'  most  people.'  I  have  had  you  for  all  these  years,  and 
I  am  not  to  be  bought  with  less  than  you  have  given 
me." 

Eleanor  laid  her  hand  on  Aubrey's.  "  Dearest,"  she 
said,  rather  sadly,  "  you  must  not  forget  that  he  is 
offering  you  what  is  out  of  my  power  to  give." 

"  I  forget  nothing ;  but  I  cannot  balance  the  account 
between  you  two  like  that.  The  bargain  is  between 
him  and  me,  and  you  must  see  how  unequal  it  is ;  he 
claims  to  have  the  best  of  it  both  ways.  He  has  the 
stronger  feeling  to  begin  with,  and  then  he  expects  to 
get  twice  as  much  sympathy  as  he  gives." 

"  Well,"  replied  Eleanor,  in  a  tone  of  concession, 
as  if  yielding  to  argument,  "  I  certainly  do  think 
he  might  be  a  little  more  of  a  supplicant  under  the 
circumstances.  It  is  his  attitude  that  is  rather  un- 
reasonable." 

"  That  is  hardly  fair,"  said  Aubrey,  quickly ;  "  he  is 


74  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

quite  unconscious,  at  any  rate.  A  man  does  not 
think  of  his  attitude ;  he  simply  knows  what  he  wants, 
and  goes  the  shortest  way  to  get  it." 

Eleanor  smiled  to  herself.  "  He  may  be  uncon- 
scious," she  said.  "I  hope  he  is;  but  that  does  not 
make  his  demands  any  less  exacting.  You  seem  to 
have  entered  into  his  interests  thoroughly  ;  he  does  not 
even  try  to  appreciate  yours." 

"  But  I  cannot  give  him  that  for  an  answer." 

"  Certainly  not ! "  thought  Eleanor,  with  a  nod  to 
her  own  confidential  reflection.  "  I  cannot  see  why 
you  should  not,"  she  said  aloud. 

"  Eleanor !  you  know  there  is  only  one  reason  that  a 
woman  can  possibly  give." 

Eleanor  looked  her  in  the  face;  she  could  dare 
much,  but  she  could  not  dare  to  thrust  home  with 
"  Give  it,  then." 

Aubrey  read  her  eyes  and  flushed.  "  If  you  think 
of  it,"  she  went  on  hurriedly,  "  with  any  sense  of 
humour,  how  can  I  put  it  as  a  bargain,  and  a  bargain 
for  opinions  too,  as  if  they  were  at  command  ?  '  Dear 
sir,'  I  suppose  I  should  write,  '  I  am  obliged  by  your 
kind  offer  ;  the  castle  would  suit  my  requirements  fairly 
well  if  it  had  more  outhouses.  Perhaps  you  could  see 
your  way  to  building  these?'"  Her  voice  fell  from 
mockery  to  discouragement  again.  "No,  no,  it  is  a 
tangle ;  whichever  way  I  turn  I  lose." 


TERMS  OF  SURRENDER  75 

"  Perhaps  I  could  do  something,"  said  Eleanor,  as  if 
musing  on  possibilities. 

"  Could  you  ?  No,  that  would  never  do ;  that  is 
not  what  I  feel  I  want.  I  want  him  to  go  on  being 
unconscious — yes,  he  must  be  quite  unconscious;  but 
if  I  could  inake  him  see  with  my  eyes  and  think  my 
own  thoughts.  It  is  my  own  fault  that  he  does  not.  I 
know  I  have  a  power  over  him  if  I  could  only  use  it  in 
the  right  way.  If  I  could  only  take  him  right  out  of 
his  own  world  and  into  mine ! " 

Her  lips  trembled,  and  she  smiled  faintly  at  her  own 
vehemence. 

"  You  can,"  said  Eleanor,  soothingly ;  "  I  am  sure 
you  can.  "  I  think  you  did  quite  take  him  away  with 
you  when  you  were  playing  just  now." 

"  The  music  did,  perhaps ;  but  he  cared  little  enough 
for  the  things  I  wanted  him  to  understand." 

"  I  am  not  sure  of  that,"  said  Eleanor,  with  a  gentle 
pressure  of  her  arm  upon  Aubrey's.  "Perhaps  there 
were  too  many  of  us  there.  It  is  a  pity,"  she  went  on 
more  lightly,  "  that  you  can't  just  lure  him  back  into 
the  fourteenth  century  for  a  time." 

"  I  will,"  she  replied,  "  if  he  will  come." 

"Oh,  he  will  come,"  said  Eleanor,  as  they  turned 
into  the  avenue ;  "  I  will  answer  for  that.  You  have 
often  taken  me  there  already." 


XII 

IT  was  exactly  half-past  one  when  Stephen  left  his 
room  at  the  summons  of  the  gong.  As  he  came  to  the 
head  of  the  staircase"  the  hideous  braying  died  away, 
and  gave  place  to  a. chorus  of  childish  laughter,  a  sound 
that  could  never  fail  to  move  his  heart.  He  hastened 
down  to  the  half-landing,  and  almost  stopped  as  he 
turned  the  corner  and  came  in  sight  of  the  group  in 
the  hall  below  him.  On  a  long  divan  which  faced  the 
foot  of  the  stairs  sat  Mrs.  Oldham,  no  longer  cold  or 
scornful,  but  as  fresh  and  beautiful  as  the  summer  day 
itself,  in  the  Eomney  dress  and  shady  hat  in  which  she 
had  been  sitting  for  her  portrait.  By  her  side  and  at 
her  knees  clustered  a  group  of  children,  four  in  number, 
but  for  the  moment  as  uncountable  as  the  chequers  in 
a  kaleidoscope  or  the  struggling  heads  at  the  opening 
of  a  nest. 

"  Oh,  do  let  us !  oh,  do,  do  let  us  I "  they  were 
clamouring ;  and  the  mother- bird's  head  bent  graciously 
over  each  in  turn,  whispering  a  secret  word  and 
drawing  back  with  a  quick  flash  of  bright  eyes  and  a 
light,  playful  turn  of  the  head. 

"  Oh  no !  not  '  perhaps,' "  they  all  broke  out  again 
76 


A  CHILD'S  DESIRE  77 

in  chorus.  The  smaller  of  the  two  boys  came  in  late 
for  the  chime.  "  Not  praps,"  he  said,  screwing  up  his 
face  with  appreciation  of  his  own  droll  mimicry,  "  but 
anything-you-like-and-don't-bower ;  that's  what  Nanna 
says." 

The  Eomney  lady  rose  to  her  feet.  "  Mr.  Bulmer," 
she  said,  laughing,  "  I  don't  think  you've  made  the 
acquaintance  of  the  most  important  part  of  the  house- 
hold. This  young  comedian  is  our  future  lord  and 
master — Worlter,  he  calls  himself — and  this  is  his 
sister  Cynthia,  my  brother's  eldest  child.  The  third  is 
a  baby ;  and  these  are  my  two,"  she  continued,  drawing 
forward  an  older  boy  and  girl.  "  George  is  seven,  and 
Margaret  is  six.  Shake  hands  with  Mr.  Bulmer,  both 
of  you ;  he  is  a  very  wise  gentleman,  and  knows  exactly 
what  is  going  to  happen  before  it  happens." 

Margaret  opened  a  pair  of  deep  blue  eyes  very  wide, 
and  stood  gazing  at  Stephen  in  silence.  George  was 
bolder  and  more  practical ;  he  clung  to  Stephen's  hand 
with  both  his  own,  and  leaned  back  with  upturned  face 
to  question  him, 

"Do  you  know  what  is  going  to  happen  this 
afternoon  ? "  he  asked. 

"  Ah ! "  said  Stephen,  in  a  deep,  mysterious  voice. 

"  No,  but  do  you  really  ?  Mother  won't  tell  us,  you 
know;  she  won't  tell  us  if  we  are  going  to  pick  bees 
after  dinner." 


78  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

"  Going  to  do  what?"  asked  Stephen,  in  astonishment. 

"You  see  how  unreasonable  they  are,"  said  Anne, 
laughing,  whether  at  them  or  him  was  not  clear. 

"  If  you  do  pick  bees,"  said  Stephen  to  the  children, 
"I  can  certainly  tell  you  what  will  happen  this 
afternoon  :  you'll  be  stung." 

The  chorus  burst  forth  again  in  a  perfect  scream  of 
laughter,  at  the  end  of  which  came  once  more  Walter's 
slow,  full  accentuation. 

"  They's  not  buzz-bees,"  he  said ;  "  they's  grass-bees." 
His  face  puckered  with  humorous  contempt. 

"  I  haven't  the  faintest  notion  what  they  mean," 
said  Stephen  to  Mrs.  Oldham. 

"  Bee-orchises,"  she  replied,  "  they  grow  in  certain 
places  in  the  park,  and  the  children  have  been  promised 
by  their  grandfather  that  he  will  take  them  out  some 
time  to  look  for  them.  They  want  me  to  ask  him  if 
to-day  may  be  the  day ;  but  I  don't  suppose  he  will 
have  time  before  his  other  guests  arrive." 

"  No,  no,  mother ;  no,  no,"  cried  the  children.  "  Not 
before  they  come ;  we  can't  go  without  the  cousins." 

"  That  is  another  difficulty,"  Anne  explained.  "  My 
sister  is  bringing  her  two  little  girls,  and  they  must 
come  too ;  they  cannot  be  here  till  four." 

The  rest  of  the  party  were  now  straggling  in,  and 
luncheon  began,  the  children  being  allowed  for  this  one 
day  to  fill  the  places  afc  the  long  table  which  had  been 


A  CHILD'S  DESIRE  79 

made  ready  for  the  larger  company  expected  at  dinner. 
They  were  as  quiet  as  mice,  but  their  presence  had  its 
effect :  the  conversation  was  more  broken,  and  even  the 
vivacious  Laverock  showed  no  inclination  to  be  dispu- 
tatious. Stephen  was  pleased  to  find  that  although 
Walter  had  treated  him  with  scorn  and  Cynthia  with 
complete  indifference,  he  was  already  on  good  terms  with 
George,  who  sat  next  to  him,  and  an  object  of  interest  to 
Margaret  opposite,  whose  wide,  wondering  eyes  were 
never  lifted  from  her  plate  except  to  be  fixed  upon  his 
face.  Before  they  went  upstairs  for  their  midday  rest, 
they  had  formally  invited  him  to  be  of  the  bee-picking 
party,  to  which  grandpapa  seemed  disposed  to  give  his 
consent.  It  was  an  affair  of  five  minutes  only,  he 
explained  in  an  aside  to  Stephen ;  the  flowers,  if  they 
were  to  be  found  at  all,  were  almost  within  sight  of  the 
terrace. 

To  the  children,  however,  it  was  a  great  expedition, 
and  by  four  o'clock  they  were  all  armed  with  their  tiny 
baskets  and  skirmishing  about  the  courtyard  in  expec- 
tation of  the  arrival  of  the  cousins.  Fortune  favoured 
them,  for  when  the  carriage  came  at  last  it  contained 
only  'Mrs.  Saltwode  and  the  two  little  girls ;  nurse  was 
following  with  the  luggage,  and  Uncle  Philip — Mr. 
Saltwode — was  walking  through  the  park  with  Captain 
"Warburton.  Lady  Barlaston  was  driving  over  later  in 
the  afternoon  from  the  house  of  some  distant  neighbours 


80  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

with  whom  she  had  been  staying.  There  was,  therefore, 
nothing  to  keep  grandpapa  indoors,  and  the  half-hour 
remaining  before  tea  was  given  up  to  the  rapture  of  the 
hunt. 

Dorothy  Saltwode  herself  led  it.  She  was  the  most 
beautiful  of  Mr.  Earnshaw's  three  daughters,  a  creature 
of  the  sun  and  air,  living  in  swallow  flights,  never  twice 
the  same,  never  ceasing  her  insatiable  quest  for  beauty 
and  delight.  She  had  scarcely  alighted  in  her  sister's 
arms  before  she  was  through  the  house  and  out  upon  the 
verandah  and  down  on  to  the  terrace,  kissing  a  cluster 
of  wistaria  as  she  passed,  like  a  wayward  zephyr.  The 
children  followed,  stumbling  and  shouting,  and  by  the 
time  Mr.  Earnshaw  and  Stephen  reached  the  path 
the  whole  party  of  children,  mothers,  and  aunts  was 
streaming  away  along  the  cool,  green  level  of  the  east 
avenue  like  a  rout  in  some  Elizabethan  Masque  of 
Summer. 

At  the  gate  they  stopped  for  breath,  and  the 
children  clung  about  their  grandfather,  who  began  to 
assume  an  air  of  mystery.  He  led  them  along  the  slope 
below  the  carriage  road  until  they  came  within  sight  of 
the  little  path  which  leads  off  from  it  down  to  the 
boathouse.  In  the  angle  between  the  two  stood  a  small 
clump  of  trees,  with  a  little  scattered  undergrowth 
beneath  and  around  them.  This  was  the  haunt  of  the 
bees,  and  the  hunters  were  instructed  in  whispers  to 


A  CHILD'S  DESIRE  81 

creep  upon  them  silently  and  stealthily.  The  directions 
were  for  the  space  of  half  a  minute  faithfully  observed ; 
then  George,  perceiving  that  his  sister  was  tiptoeing 
straight  towards  a  flower  without  seeing  it,  flung  himself 
before  her  with  a  yell,  and  both  rolled  over.  The  rest 
followed  with  a  rush,  and  Dorothy  flew  to  help.  After 
all  there  were  but  three  sprays  to  be  found,  but  these 
were  brought  back  in  triumph  to  Mr.  Earnshaw,  where 
he  sat  on  the  grass  above  with  Stephen  and  Eleanor, 
laughing  at  the  scene  before  him. 

"When  I  was  their  age,"  he  said,  "my  father 
showed  me  these  flowers;  I  can  hear  his  voice  at  this 
moment  calling  down  the  hill  to  my  sister.  Twenty 
years  ago  I  brought  my  own  children  to  this  same  place, 
just  as  I  have  brought  their  children  to-day;  and  so  it 
goes  on."  He  ended  with  a  half-sigh. 

Stephen  was  looking  curiously  at  a  fine  "  bee " 
which  Margaret  had  brought  back  and  offered  to 
him. 

"  It  is  really  a  bee,  isn't  it  ?  "  he  said,  surprised  by 
the  appearance  of  the  flower,  which  he  had  never  seen 
before.  "  I  did  not  know  bees  could  turn  into  flowers." 

The  child  stood  still,  with  wide  blue  eyes  gazing 
level  into  his. 

"  But  mother  says,"  she  replied,  in  her  clear,  earnest 
little  voice,  "  that  you  know  everything  that  is  going  to 
happen,  before  it  happens." 

a 


82  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

"  Not  quite  everything,"  he  said ;  "  only  some  kinds 
of  things." 

She  came  a  little  nearer.  "  Do  you  think,"  she 
asked,  with  a  great  effort,  "  that  you  could  know  some- 
thing for  me  ? " 

"Tell  me  what  it  is."  He  put  an  arm  about  her  and 
drew  her  to  him. 

"  When  shall  we  all  wake  up  ? " 

Stephen  did  not  understand.  "  Are  we  asleep  ? "  he 
asked. 

"  Yes,  you  know,  we  are  all  asleep,  and  we've  all  got 
to  wake  up  some  day — mother  and  George  and  grand- 
papa and  every  one.  Do  you  think  we  could  all  wake 
up  together  ? " 

Stephen  felt  the  slow,  clear  words  falling  like  magic 
drops  upon  the  eyes  of  a  dreamer.  For  a  moment  he 
saw  the  vision  of  a  timeless  existence,  a  life  without  age 
or  separation,  a  world  where  none  can  be  forgotten. 
Tears  sprang  to  his  eyes,  and  he  rose  quickly  to  his  feet, 
holding  out  a  hand  to  the  child. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Earnshaw,  rising  too,  "  it  is  time  we 
thought  of  tea ;  this  generation  has  picked  its  bees." 


XIII 

PHILIP  SALTWODE  was  some  years  older  than  the  rest 
of  Mr.  Earnshaw's  family  circle,  and  had  already  sat 
in  three  Parliaments.  He  belonged  to  the  Conservative 
party,  which  had  been  in  power  for  practically  the 
whole  of  that  period,  and  promotion  had  not  yet  come 
to  him  in  the  form  of  office ;  but  he  had  long  been 
distinguished  by  the  intimacy  of  several  of  his  chiefs, 
and  was  private  secretary  to  one  of  them.  His  capacity 
for  this  kind  of  work  was  very  considerable,  but  his 
future  was  a  little  compromised  by  his  fondness  for 
ideas.  His  interests  were,  in  fact,  those  of  a  philosopher 
rather  than  what  is  called  a  practical  politician;  but 
if  his  prospects  suffered  by  this,  he  found  great  con- 
solation in  the  whispers  which  would  brand  him  as  a 
"dangerous"  young  man.  Of  all  the  party  now  at 
Gardenleigh  he  was  probably  the  one  who  had  read 
Stephen's  book  with  most  care ;  for  though  the  author's 
views  had  not  for  him  the  personal  interest  that  they 
had  for  Aubrey  and  Eleanor,  he  assigned  to  them  a 
much  higher  place  among  opinions  of  public  importance. 
After  dinner,  when  the  dining-room  was  deserted 
for  the  verandah,  he  seated  himself  by  Stephen,  who 

83 


84  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

turned  to  him  with  pleasure,  attracted  already  by  his 
intellectual  face  and  unconventional  charm  of  manner. 

"  I  don't  want  to  ask  an  indiscreet  question,"  Salt- 
wode  began ;  "  but  if  you  are  thinking  of  taking  any 
part  in  political  life,  it  would  interest  me  very  much  to 
hear  about  it." 

"  I  can  only  say,"  replied  Stephen,  readily,  "  that  I 
am  unconscious  of  any  such  inclination  at  present ;  but 
I  am  always  glad  to  talk  politics,  especially  English 
politics,  about  which  I  have  very  little  first-hand  in- 
formation. I  don't  count  the  newspapers." 

"  Well,"  said  Philip,  "  if  it  were  merely  information 
that  you  wanted,  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word,  the 
press  has  never  been  so  well  informed  as  it  is  now.  But 
I  take  it  your  inquiry  is  really  one  into  principles,  and 
in  that  case  the  less  you  read  about  tactics  the  better." 
"  You  make  me  feel  very  unfledged,"  said  Stephen. 
"  I  suppose  principles  are  a  kind  of  juvenile  ailment  in 
the  life  of  a  politician  ?/' 

"Not  in  my  opinion,"  replied  Philip,  seriously. 
"  The  party  division  is  to  me  as  real  as  the  difference 
between  the  sexes;  and  when  a  mind  is  once  estab- 
lished in  either  class  it  can  never  change — except  in 
abnormal  instances,  which  are  generally  cases  of 
degeneration  or  of  fraudulent  disguise." 

"  May  I  ask,"  said  Stephen,  laughing,  "  to  which 
political  sex  you  yourself  belong  ? " 


THE  POLITICIAN'S  ARGUMENT  85 

"  The  masculine — what  we  call  the  Conservative." 

"  Why  the  masculine  ? "  asked  Stephen.  "  I  have 
always  thought  of  Conservatism  as  the  passive  element." 

"  That  is  the  common  idea ;  and  it  is  true  that  the 
Conservative  party  must  naturally  include  all  the  timid, 
senile,  and  old-womanish  minds  of  the  community. 
But  they  are  under  the  same  misconception  as  yourself, 
if  you  will  forgive  me  for  saying  so.  They  take 
Conservatism  to  be  the  creed  of  immobility,  the  cause 
of  crystallization.  But  obviously  that  is  impossible  ; 
the  status  qiw  has  never  been,  and  can  never  be,  pre- 
served. A  mere  '  stop-the-clock '  party  would  perish 
in  a  year — that  is,  as  soon  as  it  became  evident  that  it 
had  entirely  failed  to  stop  the  clock." 

"  Oh,  oh ! "  said  Stephen ;  "  do  you  deny  that  there 
has  ever  been  such  a  thing  as  a  reactionary  party  ? " 

"  Eeactionary  is  only  a  nickname  for  Conservative  ; 
the  fundamental  principle  implied  by  both  is  loyalty 
to  the  past,  admiration  of  the  past,  imitation  of  the 
past.  But  the  past  was  no  more  static  than  the  present 
is ;  those  were  living  trees  which  our  ancestors  tended, 
and  under  which  they  sat.  They  change,  of  course, 
because  they  grow ;  but  it  is  our  business  to  see  that 
they  remain  in  their  places,  and  are  not  cut  down  or 
rooted  up  in  favour  of  others  which  are  not  indigenous." 

"I  accept  your  simile,"  replied  Stephen,  "and  I 
ask  you  what  you  propose  to  do  when  your  trees  no 


86  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

longer  give  you  adequate  shelter;  when  they  are 
leafless  at  the  extremities,  and  decayed  in  every  branch 
and  hollow  at  the  core." 

"  ^Radicalism,"  said  Philip,  smiling,  "  is  the  creed  of 
the  faddist  with  the  axe.  He  has  always  gone  about 
seeking  what  he  may  cut  down,  and  naturally  he 
magnifies  the  decay  and  minimizes  the  surviving  utility 
of  every  institution  that  comes  in  his  way." 

"  Is  it  your  position,  then,"  said  Stephen,  "  that  he 
is  always  wrong — that  the  moment  will  never  come  for 
a  radical  operation  ? " 

"I  do  not  venture  to  prophesy,"  replied  Philip, 
"  but  I  say  that  in  England  the  moment  has  never  yet 
been  in  sight  when  a  sacrifice  of  the  kind  was  called 
for." 

"I  am  no  historian,"  said  Stephen,  "but  I  should 
have  thought  that  feudalism  was  in  a  fair  way  to  be 
forgotten." 

"Never  less  so.  You  have  been  misinformed  by 
the  painters  and  poets  and  pessimists,  who  call  us 
degenerate  because  the  armoury  of  our  invincible  fore- 
fathers is  hung  in  our  halls  and  not  on  our  backs.  So 
it  was  in  1805 ;  so  it  was  in  1815 ;  so  it  always  has 
been.  The  picturesque  is  always  obsolete;  but  the 
spirit  of  the  thing,  the  love  of  war  and  sport,  and  the 
religious  regard  for  the  weaker — that  is  more  alive  than 
ever  it  was." 


THE  POLITICIAN'S  ARGUMENT  87 

"Not  quite  so  effectively,  is  it?"  asked  Stephen. 
"The  Germans  claim  to  be  able  to  beat  you  in  war, 
and  the  Americans  in  athletics." 

Philip  smiled  disdainfully.  "That  'you'  betrays 
the  exile,"  he  said;  "but  not  more  clearly  than  the 
argument  does.  Somebody  has  always  been  beating  us. 
It  is  in  our  blood  to  desire  the  Olympic  dust  more  than 
the  Olympic  crown ;  and  there  are,  as  you  say,  certain 
other  nations  who  seek  victory  with  long  odds  rather 
than  a  fair  fight  against  the  strong.  We  don't  win 
oftener  than  others — we  never  did — but  we  forget  our 
defeats,  and  they  brood  over  theirs."  He  threw  his 
cigarette  away  and  took  another.  "By  the  way,"  he 
began  again,  "  we  are  a  long  way  off  the  track ;  we  are 
talking  about  chivalry,  which  is  only  a  concomitant  of 
feudalism." 

"  Yes,"  said  Stephen,  "  I  was  going  to  bring  you 
back  to  that.  You  have  to  persuade  me  that  this 
aristocratic-looking  English  system  is  not  what  it  looks 
to  me — a  modern  dynamo-house  with  a  row  of  wax- 
works outside  in  gaudy  robes  and  tinsel  coronets." 

"  I  admit  the  tinsel  and  deny  the  waxworks.  We 
love  tinsel ;  in  our  climate  it  does  something  to  make 
glad  the  heart  of  .man,  and  we  know  that  it  does  not 
prevent  the  workman  from  doing  his  work  well." 

"If  he  is  really  a  workman  and  not  a  waxwork. 
But  if  you  choose  him  for  the  coronet  ? " 


88 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Philip,  "  that  is  the  idea ;  but  we 
don't,  and  we  never  have.  You  see,  in  this  country 
•we  are  real  believers  in  equality.  We  don't  reject  a 
man  because  of  his  class  or  surname.  Even  if  he  is 
born  a  Howard,  he  may  yet  rise  to  be  a  post-office 
manager." 

"  Good ! "  said  Stephen,  laughing ;  "  but  he  has  to 
rise.  The  feudal  system  saved  him  that  trouble  by 
making  birth  and  power  the  same  thing." 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  Philip,  "  but  you  must  really 
let  me  contradict  you  there.  In  the  Middle  Ages  they 
thought  nearly  as  much  of  birth  as  we  do ;  but  they 
annexed  power  not  to  birth,  but  to  property.  They  de- 
prived a  duke  of  his  dukedom  for  being  poor." 

"  I  did  not  know  that,"  replied  Stephen ;  "  but  it  was 
surely  only  the  precaution  of  a  privileged  class,  anxious 
for  its  own  prestige." 

"Possibly;  but  it  was  strictly  in  accordance  with 
feudal  principles.  The  system  was  simply  an  organi- 
zation of  the  resources  of  the  country  for  the  use  of  all. 
Every  one  had  his  place,  his  duty,  and  his  living  wage. 
A  and  B  had  the  land  and  titles,  and  C  and  D  and  the 
rest  of  the  alphabet  had  a  definite  claim  upon  them 
for  housing,  food,  and  employment.  They  have  very 
foolishly  exchanged  it  for  an  indefinite  claim  for 
charitable  patronage,  in  order  that  they  may  be  free 
to  boast  of  their  independence." 


THE  POLITICIAN'S  ARGUMENT  80 

"  Oh,"  replied  Stephen,  "  they  are  not  all  paupers, 
surely ;  and  they  have  a  vote." 

"  They  have ;  but  the  individual  has  little,  if  any- 
thing, more  than  he  has  always  had ;  the  power  is  not 
with  him,  but  with  the  head  of  his  organization.  He 
used  to  be  represented  by  his  Lord.  Lord  and  "Villein 
they  are  still,  though  we  call  them  Capital  and  Labour 
in  modern  English." 

"  But  Labour  has  its  own  organization  now." 
"  Not  for  production ;  only  for  revolt.     That  is  the 
uncomfortable  stage  which  we  have  reached ;  but  it 
cannot  last." 

"  Still  less  can  it  lead  back  to  feudalism." 
Philip  smiled  meaningly  and  looked  at  Stephen. 
"  I  can  tell  you  with  some  confidence  about  that,"  he 
said,  "  for  I  have  studied  the  works  of  Buhner,  our 
most  trustworthy  sociologist.  The  present  state  of 
things  is  leading  us  back,  or  rather  leading  us  round,  to 
the  old  idea  of  an  organized  community.  In  that  com- 
munity every  man  will  have  a  place,  a  duty,  and  a 
living  wage,  and  also  a  further  reward,  proportionate  to 
his  value.  The  tinsel,  which  with  your  leave  we  shall 
preserve,  because  we  like  it,  will  adorn  the  brows  of 
those  who  fill  the  higher  and  more  responsible  places. 
Wealth  in  reason  will  be  permitted  too;  but  it  will 
never  be  acquired  by  mere  chance,  or  held  without 
definite  obligations.  Those  who  do  the  best  part  of  the 


90  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

most  intelligent  work  will  be  enabled  to  live  the  most 
dignified  lives." 

"  I  recognize  the  sketch,"  said  Stephen,  "  and  I  am 
very  glad  that  it  appeals  to  you ;  but  I  must  tell  you 
that  my  method  was  simply  to  draw  it  as  different  as 
possible  from  anything  that  has  existed,  or  now  exists, 
in  England." 

"  It  is  a  happy  failure,  then,"  replied  Philip,  "  for  it 
represents  very  attractively  the  ideal  of  State  Socialism, 
the  system  from  which  we  have  come,  which  we  have 
never  entirely  abandoned,  and  to  which  we  are  inevitably 
returning." 

"It  is  a  pretty  paradox,"  said  Stephen.  "But  I 
need  no  conversion ;  you  must  try  it  on  your  Con- 
servative friends." 

"  I  thought  you  would  say  that,"  replied  Philip, 
with  an  appreciative  smile,  "  and  I  confess  that  you  hit 
me  hard.  There  are  no  hindrances  like  those  of  one's 
own  household.  The  Conservatives  shy  at  the  very 
name  of  Socialism,  because  they  own  most  of  the  great 
fortunes  and  titles,  and  they  fear  either  to  lose  them  or 
to  have  them  burdened  with  hard-and-fast  responsibili- 
ties. The  Englishman  loves  duty,  but  hates  obligation." 
"  I  should  like  to  ask  Mr.  Earnshaw,"  said  Stephen, 
seeing  his  host  approach  at  this  moment,  "  which  of  the 
two  great  parties  is,  in  his  opinion,  the  more  likely  to 
coalesce  with  the  Socialists." 


THE  POLITICIAN'S  ARGUMENT  91 

"If  bidding  were  buying,  I  should  say  the  Con- 
servatives," replied  Mr.  Earnshaw;  "but  in  some 
bargains  there  are  other  considerations  beside  the  mere 
price." 

"The  Socialists,"  said  Philip,  "are  not  selling  an 
old  horse  to  a  kind  home." 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Earnshaw,  when  they  had  all  done 
laughing,  "  they  are  not  looking  for  affection,  but  they 
are  looking  for  success ;  and  they  will  find  it  by  joining 
the  party  which  is  least  handicapped  by  devotion  to 
system.  So  long  as  socialistic  measures  come  singly 
and  are  purely  opportunist,  there  is  apparently  no  limit 
to  the  amount  we  can  absorb ;  for,  among  Englishmen, 
the  best  individualist  is  at  heart  the  best  fellow-citizen. 
But  your  German  system  spoils  all  for  us.  When  logic 
comes  in  at  the  door,  persuasion  flies  out  of  the  window." 

"  My  father-in-law  is  incorrigible,"  said  Philip  to 
Stephen  ;  "  it  is  an  old  quarrel  between  us." 

"  It  is  a  quarrel  older  than  we  are,"  replied  Mr. 
Earnshaw  ;  "  it  is  as  old  as  that " — he  pointed  to  the 
long,  silent  slope  of  the  park,  where  the  cattle  were 
wandering  in  the  moonlight. 

The  spell  of  the  summer  night  fell  upon  the  three 
men,  and  they  sat  for  some  time  without  a  word,  their 
thoughts  all  following  the  same  train.  For  the  first 
few  moments  the  scene  had  a  strange  air  of  unreality ; 
they  saw  the  hills  and  trees  and  silvered  water  as 


92  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

things  which  had  been  enchanted  from  life  into 
tapestry ;  but  soon  they  themselves  were  bound  with 
the  same  magic.  This  alone  was  real,  and  to  think 
again  of  their  politics  was  to  look  from  far  off  upon  the 
transient  and  dusty  struggles  of  a  half-forgotten  world. 
Is  it  possible,  they  wondered,  that  such  things  are  still 
in  issue 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Earnshaw  at  last;  "there  is 
nothing  new  under  the  moon.  Let  us  go  in."  And  he 
led  the  way  into  the  house. 


XIV 

SUNDAY  morning  brought  a  still  more  dazzling  sky,  a 
warmer  air,  and  a  deeper  contrast  everywhere  of  sun- 
light and  shadow.  The  year  seemed  to  have  done  with 
birth  and  transition;  roses  fell  and  roses  opened,  but 
there  was  no  longer  any  sign  of  change,  any  reason  for 
doubting  that  summer  was  to  be  eternal. 

Stephen  passed  the  morning  in  the  west  avenue, 
sitting  under  a  huge  elm  tree,  whose  upper  canopy 
towered  a  hundred  feet  above  him,  while  the  lowest 
branches,  rough  and  ponderous  as  the  knees  of  a  giant, 
bent  down  almost  to  the  mossy  turf,  and  were  sup- 
ported there  on  stools  of  wood  nearly  as  green  and 
uncouth  as  themselves.  He  had  a  book  with  him,  and 
was  resigned  to  solitude ;  for  Aubrey  had  disappeared 
from  the  breakfast-table  with  the  explanation  that  she 
was  going  to  the  Sunday-school,  and  Mr.  Earnsnaw  had 
suggested  that  if  he  did  not  wish  to  attend  church 
twice  in  the  day,  he  would  find  it  more  convenient  to 
wait  till  the  afternoon  service  at  Gardenleigh,  and  so 
escape  the  longer  walk  to  Croonington.  It  occurred  to 
him  that  as  some  of  the  ladies  were  intending  to  make 
this  journey — and  at  least  two  of  them  had  already 

93 


94  THE  OLD  COUNTKY 

made  it  before  breakfast — it  could  hardly  be  too  far  for 
his  own  powers ;  but  he  thought  his  host  might  possibly 
have  some  reason  for  wishing  to  arrange  his  day  for 
him,  and,  since  Aubrey  was  already  out  of  the  way,  he 
readily  acquiesced. 

Mr.  Earnshaw's  motive  had  merely  been  a  desire 
that  his  guest  should  feel  free  to  do  as  he  pleased ;  the 
tradition  of  Sunday  at  Gardenleigh  was  strongly  against 
compulsory  service.  His  suggestion,  however,  brought 
in  its  train  another  advantage,  which  he  had  not  fore- 
seen. 

The  "Earthly  Paradise"  lay  open  011  Stephen's 
knees ;  he  had  read  one  of  the  sweet,  sad  stories,  and 
the  still  sweeter  and  sadder  invocation  to  the  month, 
which  followed  it.  His  mind  had  lost  its  edge  and 
movement  under  the  charm,  and  lay  like  an  axe  thrown 
down  upon  the  floor  of  the  forest,  no  longer  swinging 
and  trenchant,  but  half  lost  in  flowers,  and  reflecting 
only  the  green  summer  world  above  it.  Into  this 
silence  came  no  sound  but  the  unceasing  murmur  of 
the  wood-pigeons,  until  a  sharper  note  was  struck  by 
the  clank  of  the  little  iron  gate  which  led  from  the 
courtyard  into  the  garden  path  behind  him.  He  did 
not  stir,  but  listened  idly  to  the  slow  tread  of  feet 
upon  the  gravel,  dying  away  behind  the  long  sweep  of 
the  intervening  lawn.  Voices,  too,  there  seemed  to  be, 
and  he  thought  he  could  still  hear  them  murmuring 


"OGIER  THE  DANE"  95 

after  the  steps  had  gone;  but  whenever  he  held  his 
breath  to  listen,  the  sound  had  vanished.  He  had 
ceased  to  wonder,  when  the  green  arch  of  the  avenue 
was  suddenly  flecked  at  the  far  end  by  two  figures 
returning  slowly  towards  him.  The  murmur  of  voices 
mingled  again  with  his  dream  ;  he  feared  to  break  it  if 
he  moved,  and  it  seemed  as  if  a  lifetime  passed  before 
the  sound  changed  suddenly  from  unreality  to  human 
speech,  and  Aubrey  and  Eleanor  stood  by  him. 

"Don't  move,"  cried  Eleanor,  with  a  smile  of 
sympathetic  indolence  ;  "  we  are  lazy  too." 

"  I  am  not  lazy,"  said  Aubrey,  as  they  sat  down  in 
the  basket-chairs  opposite  to  him;  "I  have  been  to 
school.  Eleanor  has  done  nothing  yet ;  she  shall  read 
to  us." 

She  held  out  her  hand  for  the  book,  which  Stephen 
gave  her. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  turning  over  the  pages  as  one  who 
knew  them  well,  "  that  will  do ;  read  us  '  Ogier  the 
Dane.' " 

"  Shall  I  read  the  Argument  ?  "  said  Eleanor ;  and 
forthwith  began  in  her  low,  clear  voice — 

"'When  Ogier  was  born,  six  fay  ladies  came  to 
the  cradle  where  he  lay,  and  gave  him  various  gifts, 
as  to  be  brave  and  happy,  and  the  like ;  but  the  sixth 
gave  him  to  be  her  love  when  he  should  have  lived 
long  in  the  world,  So  Ogier  grew  up,  and  became  the 


96  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

greatest  of  knights,  and  at  last,  after  many  years,  he 
fell  into  the  hands  of  that  fay,  and  with  her,  as  the 
story  tells,  he  lives  now,  though  he  returned  once  to 
the  world,  as  is  shown  in  the  process  of  this  tale.' " 

"  Yes,"  said  Aubrey,  with  an  air  of  great  enjoyment, 
"  he  returned  once  to  the  world.  Begin  there ;  we  shall 
not  have  time  for  the  whole  story.  The  others  will  be 
coming  home  from  church." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Eleanor,  beginning  to  turn  over 
the  pages  in  search  of  the  required  place ;  "  but  does 
Mr.  Bulmer  know  the  beginning  ? " 

Stephen  replied  that  he  knew  no  more  than  what 
the  Argument  had  just  told  him. 

"Then  I  must  explain,"  she  said,  "that  Ogier  the 
Dane  was  one  of  the  paladins  of  Charlemagne,  and 
a  tremendous  fighter  and  lover.  In  his  long  life  he 
saved  France  from  the  infidels,  and  conquered  Babylon ; 
he  was  King  of  Denmark,  and  afterwards  of  England. 
When  he  was  old  Morgan  le  Fay  carried  him  away  to 
Avalon,  and  set  a  ring  on  his  hand  which  gave  him 
back  perpetual  youth.  In  Avalon  they  have  no  sense 
of  time.  When  Ogier  had  been  there  a  few  days  the 
fay  comes  to  him  and  tells  him  that  on  earth  it  is 
already  a  hundred  years  since  he  passed  away,  and  his 
fame  is  dim  and  scarcely  remembered.  France  is  once 
more  in  danger  from  the  heathen,  and  there  is  no  one 
like  him  to  help,  '  for  men  are  dwindled  both  in  heart 


"OGIER  THE  DANE"  97 

and  frame.'  So  he  goes  back,  and  finds  himself  un- 
known, and  all  his  generation  long  forgotten;  but  he 
delivers  the  country,  and  is  to  marry  the  Queen  and 
be  King  of  France.  On  his  wedding  morning  Morgan 

le  Fay  conies  at  sunrise  and  reminds  him  of  Avalon 

But  you  will  hear  the  end  when  we  come  to  it.  I  will 
begin  here — 

" '  Think  that  a  hundred  years  have  now  passed  by 
Since  ye  beheld  Ogier  lie  down  to  die 
Beside  the  fountain ;  think  that  now  ye  are 
In  France,  made  dangerous  with  wasting  war.' " 

The  soft,  clear  voice  began  in  the  tones  of  every  day, 
but  as  it  gradually  became  one  with  the  unceasing  flow 
of  the  narrative,  it  took  on  a  monotonous  and  half- 
melancholy  rhythm.  Stephen's  eyes  were  fixed  on 
Aubrey,  who  seemed  to  be  too  absorbed  to  notice  him ; 
but  he  had  no  sense  of  separation  from  her,  for  they 
seemed  to  be  floating  together  down  the  stream  of 
the  story,  and  he  felt  that  her  thought  was  holding 
his  own  with  a  force  to  which  he  willingly  resigned 
himself. 

The  poem  is  a  long  one,  but  it  ended  at  last,  and 
for  a  few  moments  they  all  three  sat  silent. 

"  It  is  a  good  story,"  Eleanor  began ;  "  it  is  so 
delightfully  fantastic,  and  yet  so  realistically  put  before 
you." 

"  Yes,"  said  Stephen,  "  the  miraculous  journeys  to 

H 


98  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

fairy-land  and  back    are  the    easiest   things    in  the 
world : 

"  '  One  moment  on  the  twain  the  low  sun  shone, 

And  then  the  place  was  void,  and  they  were  gone.'  " 

"  But  so  they  were ;  so  they  would  be,"  said  Aubrey. 
"  There  is  nothing  either  easy  or  difficult  about  that ; 
you  have  the  power,  or  you  have  not.  William  Morris 
has  it,  as  no  doubt  Morgan  le  Fay  had.  She  would 
not  have  been  much  of  a  fay  without  it." 

"  No,"  said  Eleanor ;  "  her  power  was  so  absolute 
that  she  could  afford  to  give  Ogier  one  more  glance  at 
the  rippling  Seine.  If  he  did  not  regret  leaving  it, 
Morris  does."  She  opened  the  book  again. 

" '  He  turned,  and  gazed  upon  the  city  gray, 
Smit  by  the  gold  of  that  sweet  morn  of  May  ; 
He  heard  faint  noises  as  of  wakening  folk, 
As  on  their  heads  his  day  of  glory  broke ; 
He  heard  the  changing  rush  of  the  swift  stream 
Against  the  bridge-piers.    All  was  grown  a  dream.'  " 

Aubrey  looked  mischievously  at  her.  "  Morris," 
she  said,  "  for  all  his  revolutionary  idealism,  is  a  child 
of  earth,  because  he  is  a  poet.  Avalon  was  the  better 
place,  he  knows ;  but  poor  old  France,  with  her  wars 
and  her  gray  cities  and  ancient  rivers  with  real  names, 
is  nearer  his  heart  than  any  paradise  of  phantoms." 

Stephen  could  not  miss  the  challenge.  "  I  dare 
say,"  he  replied,  "  if  we  only  knew,  his  old  France  is 
no  more  real  than  his  Avalou.  Do  you  think,  if  we 


"OGIER  THE  DANE"  99 

went  back  as  Ogier  did,  that  we  should  find  life  possible 
or  intelligible,  even  here  in  England  ?  The  life  of  past 
centuries,  I  mean." 

Aubrey's  eyes  brightened.  "  Life  in  England,"  she 
said,  "  has  always  been  possible  and  intelligible  for  an 
Englishman.  In  the  fourteenth  century,  at  any  rate, 
I  find  myself  at  home  ;  it  is  only  the  more  external  and 
accidental  things  that  are  different" 

"  Language  ?  "  asked  Stephen. 

"  Some  of  it,"  she  replied,  "  I  do  not  understand  ;  but 
I  often  hear  things  said  in  very  modern  English  that 
have  no  meaning  for  me." 

She  flushed  a  little  as  she  spoke,  and  Stephen  could 
have  flung  himself  at  her  feet. 

"There  is  one  weak  point  in  the  story,  I  think," 
said  Eleanor,  after  a  pause,  "  and  that  is  that  neither 
Ogier  nor  Morris  seem  to  regret  the  poor  little  Queen 
of  France,  whose  love  is  tossed  aside  as  easily  as  her 
crown." 

"  Don't  you  think,"  asked  Stephen,  "  that  that  is 
always  so  with  Morris;  he  is  satisfied  if  his  heroes 
are  faithful  to  Love,  but  for  him  there  is  little  or  no 
distinction  between  their  lovers." 

"He  may  be  satisfied,"  replied  Eleanor,  "but  we 
are  not.  Even  his  enchantment  cannot  persuade  us 
that  one  woman  is  the  same  as  another." 

"  Let  us  suppose,"  said  Aubrey,  "  that  in  this  case 


100  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

they  really  were  the  same.  The  Queen  of  Prance  may 
have  been  Morgan  le  Fay  in  human  form.  If  Ogier 
could  go  back  and  be  reincarnated,  why  could  not 
she  too  ? " 

"  Yes,"  said  Stephen,  "  that  is  a  much  better  story ; 
on  such  terms  going  back  would  be  a  very  different 
thing.  But  one  would  have  to  be  sure." 

Aubrey  looked  at  him  as  if  searching  in  vain  for 
a  reply.  Eleanor  rose  and  held  out  her  hands  to  help 
her  up. 

"  Let  us  go  to  meet  the  others,"  she  said ;  "  I  hear 
them  on  the  terrace." 


XV 

MR.  EAENSHAW  had  not  forgotten  his  promise  to  lend 
Stephen  his  notebook  on  the  antiquities  of  Gardenleigh. 
That  evening,  when  the  long  hot  day  was  falling  to  cool- 
ness and  quiet,  when  the  noisy  happiness  of  the  children's 
hour  was  over,  and  the  company  had  dispersed  for  the 
restful  interval  before  supper,  he  seated  his  guest  in  an 
armchair  in  his  own  study,  placed  a  square,  morocco- 
bound  volume  in  his  hands,  and  left  him  to  read  as  much 
or  as  little  as  he  felt  inclined.  It  was,  in  fact,  little 
rather  than  much.  The  book  was  admirably  kept,  and 
Stephen  was  astonished  and  interested  to  see  how  many 
traces  those  forgotten  centuries  had  left.  But  his 
imagination  was  not  to  be  impressed  by  mere  lists  of 
names  and  dates.  It  was  no  doubt  remarkable  that 
small  and  remote  villages  like  Croonington  and  Garden- 
leigh should  have  so  continuous  and  well-authenticated 
a  history ;  there  were  but  few  gaps  in  the  list  of  rectors, 
and  none  in  that  of  the  knightly  tenants  who  held 
Gardenleigh  of  the  King  in  capite.  Monumental  in- 
scriptions and  Latin  documents  set  out  in  full  gave  an 
air  of  dignity,  and  a  page  or  two  of  heraldic  blazons 
added  a  half-mysterious  charm.  Stephen  was  willing 

101 


102  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

enough — far  more  willing  than  he  could  have  been  a 
week  ago — to  consider  these  relics  with  an  approving 
eye;  but  the  unadorned  and  unimpassioned  manner 
in  which  they  were  set  forth  gave  him  little  chance 
against  his  own  long-ingrained  habit  of  regarding  the 
past  as  a  museum  full  of  meaningless  curiosities.  After 
all,  he  began  to  think,  as  he  had  often  thought  before,  in 
these  eight  hundred  years  some  one  must  always  have 
been  living  here  :  one  name  is  no  more  true  than  another 
when  all  are  empty  husks,  and  if  an  entirely  new  list 
were  substituted  for  these  to-morrow,  no  one  would 
perceive  any  difference. 

So  ran  the  argument,  but  he  was  less  satisfied  with 
it  than  usual.  There  were,  he  knew,  two  people  to 
whom  the  difference  would  be  a  real  one,  instantly 
detected ;  and  they  were  the  two  in  all  the  world  with 
whom  he  most  desired  to  find  himself  in  sympathy.  He 
had  a  moment  of  acute  discomfort  as  the  thought  struck 
him  that  a  day  might  be  not  far  off  when  the  substi- 
tution of  another  name  for  his  own  on  the  Gardenleigh 
dinner-table  would  be  of  infinitely  less  interest  to  its 
owners  than  the  changing  of  a  Henry  to  a  Hugh  on  the 
Marland  pedigree.  To  fail  would  be  bitter  enough,  but 
to  fail  because  these  dry  bones  could  not  live  for  him 
was  to  be  trampled  by  Fate  in  her  severest,  most  ironic 
mood.  He  rose  suddenly  and  went  to  the  open  window ; 
standing  there  with  his  fingers  still  between  the  pages 


"EARNSHAWS  SELECT  CHARTERS"    103 

of  the  book,  he  looked  through  the  hanging  clusters  of 
the  wistaria  at  the  terrace  and  the  hillside  drenched  in 
the  setting  sunlight,  and  longed  intensely  for  Aubrey's 
presence  to  assure  him  that  all  was  not  yet  lost. 

"  Is  that  my  father's  book  ?  "  said  her  voice  at  the 
door. 

The  playful  humour  of  the  tone  was  like  the  blue 
returning  to  a  thundery  sky.  He  looked  down  at  the 
volume  in  his  hand,  and  laughed  at  it  with  her. 

"'Earnshaw's  Select  Charters'  is  the  name  it  goes 
by,"  she  continued,  '.'but  no  one  ever  reads  it.  They 
prefer  mine." 

She  laid  a  smaller  volume  on  the  table,  an  octavo 
in  white  vellum  binding,  decorated  on  the  sides  with 
gold  heraldic  tooling,  and  on  the  back  with  the  words 
"  Gardenleigh,  Vol.  II." 

Stephen  put  out  a  hand  towards  it.  "May  I  see 
it  ? "  he  asked ;  "  it  does  look  more  inviting." 

"  It  is  a  more  popular  style  of  work,"  she  said ;  "  it 
supplies  a  long-felt  want.  Not  long-felt  in  your  case,  of 
course,"  she  added,  with  assumed  gravity ;  "  but  if  my 
father  is  going  to  examine  you,  it  might  save  you  from 
being  completely  ploughed." 

Stephen  laughed;  but  the  light  words  brought  a 
cloud  that  almost  hid  the  blue  again.  He  was  in  a  real 
difficulty,  and  he  felt  that  it  was  Aubrey  rather  than 
her  book  that  must  help  him. 


104  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

"  I  am  afraid,"  he  said  seriously,  with  his  eyes  oil 
hers,  "  that  you  think  me  very  uninterested,  very  dull 
and  unsympathetic." 

She  gaily  brushed  his  anxiety  aside.  "  Oh  no,"  she 
said,  "it  is  much  to? soon  to  think  anything  so  bad  as 
that ;  you  have  not  even  read  my  book  yet." 

"  I  am  sure  to  like  what  you  have  written,"  he  said ; 
"  but  that  is  not  really  the  question,  is  it  ?  You  would 
not  take  that  as  conclusive  ? " 

"  No,"  she  replied,  without  wavering  from  her  light, 
unconscious  tone.  "I  can  imagine  even  a  foreigner 
liking  what  I  have  written;  if  we  are  to  make  an 
Englishman  of  you,  it  must  go  deeper  than  that." 

"  Must  every  Englishman  be  made  on  one  pattern  ? 
You  have  more  kinds  than  one  in  this  country  ? " 

"  Of  animals,  not  of  men,"  she  replied,  with  charming 
scorn ;  "  beasts  of  the  field  may  be  turned  out  anywhere 
— Devon  or  Dakota,  it  is  all  one  to  them  if  the  pasture 
is  equally  rich.  Even  they,  I  think,  know  the  differ- 
ence, but  they  are  dumb.  When  I  speak  of  Englishmen, 
I  do  not  mean  them." 

He  did  not  want  to  fall  into  an  argument,  but  he  did 
want  to  assert  his  own  good-will,  to  plead  against  the 
touch  of  scorn  in  her  voice. 

"  I  wish "  he  began,  almost  timidly. 

"  I  know  you  do,"  she  said,  laughing  frankly  again ; 
"  you  wish  you  could  see  where  we  differ,  and  you  can't* 


"EARNSHAW'S  SELECT  CHARTERS"          105 

That  is  because  you  follow  only  your  own  line  of 
thought,  and  not  mine;  you  must  understand  both  if 
you  want  to  see  how  far  apart  they  are." 

"  You  have  only  to  show  me,"  he  said ;  "  the  will  is 
not  wanting." 

"I  will  show  you,"  she  replied;  "in  one  way  or 
another,  I  will.  But  you  must  read  my  book  first,  and 
get  to  know  my  friends,  then  we  will  compare  notes 
again." 

She  nodded  as  if  to  encourage  him  in  his  task, 
pushed  the  book  across  the  table,  and  was  gone.  Stephen 
was  divided  between  trembling  delight  at  her  tacit 
recognition  of  his  suit — surely  it  had  come  to  that — and 
anger  at  himself  for  making  so  poor  a  figure  in  what 
might  have  been  a  great  opportunity.  He  had  gained 
nothing — except  the  book ;  and  for  some  time  he  read 
the  first  page  over  and  over  without  knowing  anything 
beyond  the  fact  that  it  was  in  her  handwriting. 


XVI 

GKADUALLY  the  storm  that  shook  his  pulses  abated,  his 
mental  vision  cleared,  and  he  began  to  follow  the 
meaning  of  the  words  before  him.  But  this  reading  was 
unlike  any  he  had  known  ;  he  was  never  for  a  moment 
alone,  never  forgetful  of  the  voice  whose  tones  and 
rhythm  were  faithfully  echoed  to  his  heart  from  every 
page  his  eyes  rested  upon. 

"If  this  volume  is  successful,"  the  first  chapter 
began,  "  it  will  be  the  reader's  favourite,  as  it  is  mine. 
It  is  the  book  of  the  Marlands,  the  story  of  the 
fourteenth  century — the  century  of  Wyclif,  Chaucer, 
and  the  Black  Prince.  Gardenleigh  was  a  small  holding 
then,  but  it  was  not  a  backwater,  and  the  Marlands  were 
not  outsiders :  they  did  not  make  history  themselves, 
but  they  had  friends  who  did,  and  they  took  a  hand  now 
and  then  where  they  could  be  useful  in  a  small  way. 
To  begin  with,  they  were  Devon  men;  and,  secondly,  they 
were  business  men.  They  left  Marland  St.  Peter  when 
they  began  to  prosper;  young  Eobert  de  Marland 
inherited  half  Gardenleigh  through  his  Colthurst  mother, 
and  got  a  good  appointment  in  Somerset.  His  son,  Sir 
Henry,  went  into  the  army,  and  did  well ;  he  bought  the 

106 


"  (JARDENLEIGH,  VOL.  II  »  107 

other  half  of  the  knight's  fee  from  his  cousin,  and  the 
family  was  successfully  founded  when  Edward  the 
First  was  king." 

The  rest  of  the  chapter  was  concerned  with  details  of 
the  life  of  Eobert  and  Henry,  told  in  the  lively  and  un- 
conventional manner  in  which,  as  Stephen  had  before 
noticed,  Aubrey  habitually  spoke  of  these  ancient 
inhabitants.  Nothing  could  be  more  modern  than 
Eobert's  bargaining  with  his  brother  Eudo  for  the  rent 
of  the  house  which  he  eventually  let  to  him  on  an 
outlying  part  of  the  property;  nothing  more  natural 
than  their  subsequent  quarrel  and  lawsuit,  when 
Eobert,  irritated  by  Eudo's  calm  fashion  of  treating  the 
whole  place  as  his  own,  denied  him  even  his  rights  as 
a  tenant  of  the  manor,  and  tried  to  prevent  him  from 
taking  "reasonable  estovers"  in  his  wood  of  Garden- 
leigh.  Of  course,  before  the  case  came  to  trial  the 
women  of  the  family  intervened,  and  Eobert  was 
mollified;  but  it  was  only  at  the  last  moment,  and 
there  were  costs  to  be  paid,  which  the  brothers  agreed, 
as  they  lunched  together  at  the  Bull  in  Selwood, 
amounted  to  nothing  less  than  extortion  on  the  part  of 
these  rascally  lawyers. 

As  for  the  purchase  by  Sir  Henry  from  the  last  of 
the  Colthursts,  Aubrey's  account  of  it,  though  brief 
enough,  was  singularly  minute  and  realistic.  It  might, 
Stephen  thought,  have  served  for  the  outline  of  a  novel 


108  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

by  Balzac,  one  of  those  sordid  and  pathetic  pieces  in 
which  hard  cash  and  still  harder  feelings  grind  and 
jingle  against  one  another  from  end  to  end  of  an 
incredibly  interesting  story.  Last  came  the  building 
of  Gardenleigh  Church,  the  birth  of  the  grandchildren, 
and  the  death  of  Sir  Henry,  the  old  soldier  who 
had  fought  in  so  many  of  Edward's  campaigns,  and 
lived  to  see  the  service  going  to  the  dogs  under  his 
successor. 

Chapter  II.  was  longer  and  still  more  vividly 
written.  The  reader  was  invited,  or  rather  compelled, 
to  pay  a  series  of  visits  to  Gardenleigh  between  the 
years  1320  and  1350.  You  saw  the  young  squire — the 
second  Sir  Henry — modernizing  the  house,  and  selling 
here  and  buying  there  to  round  off  the  property  to 
which  he  had  just  succeeded.  You  saw  the  childhood 
of  his  four  little  sons — Edmund,  William,  John,  and 
Henry — of  whom  no  one  could  have  guessed  that  the 
youngest  would  be  the  one  to  take  his  father's  place 
thirty  years  later.  You  saw  their  friendships  with 
the  Bryans — Guy  de  Bryan  was  only  a  year  younger 
than  little  Harry — and  the  Tremurs,  whose  second  son, 
Ralph,  spent  many  holidays  with  Edmund,  and  in  the 
end  bore  him  away  to  Oxford,  much  against  his  father's 
wish.  Guy  was  the  favourite,  and  the  three  younger 
Marland  boys  would  all  have  gone  soldiering  with 
him,  if  a  bathing  accident  had  not  laid  Will  and  Johnny 


"  GARDENLEIGH,  VOL.  II"  109 

side  by   side   in   the  north  chantry   of  Gardenleigh 
Church.      Harry   and   Guy  were   only  the  more   in- 
separable, and  it  must  have  been  with  a  heavy  heart 
that  Sir  Henry  saw  them  off  to  France,  and  came  home 
alone  to  wait  for  the  news  of  Cressy.    For  Harry  was 
already  his  heir.     Edmund,  the  eldest  and  dearest  of 
his  four  sons,  had  from  his  early  years  shown  a  discon- 
certing taste  for  scholarship;  then  came  his  intimacy 
with  Ealph  Tremur,  a  youth  of  vehement  and  masterful 
character,  against  whose  driving  power  the  parental 
influence  carried  on  a  very  unequal  struggle.     It  ended 
in  the  departure  of  the  two  friends  for  Oxford,  and  their 
entry  into  holy  orders  in  due  course.     In  1331  young 
Tremur  was  instituted  to  the  family  living  in  Cornwall, 
and  two  years  later  Sir  Henry  persuaded  Edmund  to 
come  back  as  rector  to  Gardenleigh.     But  to  a  man  of 
Edmund's  deeply  earnest  character  a  sinecure  and  the 
easy  life  of  a  rich  house  were  but  a  prison.   He  resigned 
the  living  after  a  year's  trial,  gave  away  to  his  brothers 
the  property  his  father  had  settled  on  him,  and  devoted 
himself  to  work  among   the   seafaring  population  of 
Plymouth,  where  a  cure  was  found  for  him  by  John  de 
Grandison,  the  brilliant  and  energetic  Bishop  of  Exeter. 
But  his  health  was  often  unequal  to  his  determination, 
and  after  his  mother  had  nursed  him  through  a  series  of 
illnesses,  the  last  of  which  kept  him  nearly  a  whole 
year  at  Gardenleigh,  she  prevailed  upon  him  to  give  up 


110  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

Plymouth  and  accept  the  position  of  chaplain  to  Lord 
Berkeley  in  Gloucestershire.  By  so  doing  she  un- 
wittingly brought  him  within  reach  of  a  new  danger. 
The  Black  Death,  which  for  a  year  past  had  been 
decimating  the  clergy  of  the  neighbouring  district,  fell 
for  the  second  time  upon  Portishead,  and  carried  off  the 
incumbent  with  many  of  his  flock.  There  was  great 
difficulty  in  supplying  a  properly  qualified  successor, 
and  Edmund,  when  he  heard  of  it,  at  once  volunteered 
for  the  place.  He  escaped  the  epidemic,  after  all ;  but 
the  anxiety  bore  hardly  upon  his  parents,  to  whom,  too, 
the  death  of  their  old  friend,  Sir  Guy,  young  Bryan's 
father,  came  as  the  last  and  heaviest  of  a  long  succession 
of  cruel  losses.  At  sixty-five  Sir  Henry  was  now  an 
old  man,  silent  and  broken ;  but  his  troubles  brought 
him  nearer  than  ever  to  Edmund,  who  was  constantly 
riding  over  to  Gardenleigh  between  the  Sundays.  The 
sympathy  between  them  was  deep,  and  needed  few 
words.  Their  happiest  times  were  passed  in  the 
high-walled  garden  on  the  hill  opposite  the  house, 
or  in  the  little  church,  where  so  many  of  their  old 
associations  were  centred,  and  where  in  the  sacrament 
of  the  altar  they  renewed  together  their  friendship 
with  the  dead  and  their  hope  for  the  generations  to 
come. 

Stephen  read  no  more;  he  moved  abruptly,  as  if 
with  sudden  pain,  and  laid  the  book  aside.     The  story 


M GABDENLEIGH,  VOL.  II "  111 

was  a  simple  one,  but  for  some  reason,  which  he  did 
not  understand,  it  had  pierced  to  the  quick.  A  hot 
tide  of  blood  rushed  through  him,  as  if  a  great  thought 
had  struck  him  unexpectedly,  and  the  sunset  light  in 
which  he  sat  seemed  to  be  part  of  an  illumination  that 
was  taking  place  within  him  not  less  than  without. 
He  looked  with  new  eyes  across  the  valley  to  the  upper 
lake,  by  whose  bank  the  home  of  these  men  had  once 
stood,  in  whose  waters  the  church  of  their  consolation 
was  still  mirrored  among  its  trees.  For  him,  too,  it 
had,  since  yesterday,  associations  that  could  never  be 
forgotten ;  it  had  gathered  him  into  the  fellowship  of 
all  these  centuries,  and  given  the  touch  of  life  to  that 
which  an  hour  ago  had  been  to  him  the  dust  of  graves. 
To  question  Aubrey's  authority,  to  ask  upon  what 
evidences  she  had  built,  never  once  occurred  to  him ; 
the  facts  of  the  story  were  the  facts  of  human  feeling, 
the  most  irrefutable  of  all ;  the  characters  moved  and 
breathed  with  the  very  fire  of  youth,  the  very  sadness 
and  resignation  of  old  age.  They  loved  this  place,  he 
no  longer  doubted,  as  Aubrey  loved  it,  as  he  himself 
was  inevitably  beginning  to  love  it ;  it  was  the  back- 
ground of  his  dearest  thoughts  and  theirs ;  they  must 
be  his  friends  as  they  were  Aubrey's.  He  desired  not 
so  much  to  meet  with  Edmund  as  to  meet  him  again, 
and  he  looked  down  to  the  far  end  of  the  church  path 
as  if  in  expectation  that  he  might  at  any  moment  see 


112  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

him  stepping  out  from  the  shadow  of  the  trees ;  for  he 
was  forgetting,  as  he  had  never  forgotten  before,  that 
what  to  the  eye  is  only  a  sunlit  space  of  half  a  mile 
may  measure  by  the  beat  of  human  pulses  more  than 
half  a  thousand  years. 


XVII 

THE  evening  was  a  warm  one,  and  after  supper  the 
moonlit  terrace  seemed  a  better  place  than  drawing- 
room  or  library.  At  first  every  one  gathered  in  one 
cheerful  group;  but  as  the  still  magic  of  the  night 
made  itself  felt,  the  conversation  became  quieter  and 
quieter,  and  the  company  melted  away  in  congenial 
twos  and  threes.  Aubrey  was  soon  sitting  in  her  old 
place  upon  the  lower  parapet ;  and  Stephen,  as  he  stood 
silent  by  her  side,  wondered  what  thoughts  could  be 
stirring  beneath  the  calm  that  seemed  to  have  turned 
the  clear  outline  of  her  face  to  purest  marble. 

"  Look !  "  she  said  at  last  in  a  low  voice,  pointing  to 
two  figures  some  distance  away. 

The  moonlight  gave  them  a  weird  distinctness,  but 
took  from  them  at  the  same  time  all  individuality;  it 
was  impossible  even  to  guess  at  their  identity  as  they 
moved  slowly  across  the  grass  and  disappeared  without 
a  sound  among  the  sombre  yews  and  ilexes  of  the 
garden  slope. 

"  Who  are  they  ?  "  asked  Stephen,  in  the  same  low 
tone. 

113 


114  THE  OLD  COUNTEY 

"Who  can  tell  on  such  a  night  as  this?"  she 
replied.  "You  know  how  in  June  evenings,  or  in 
deep  frost,  or  when  the  September  moon  is  rising 
behind  great  trees,  things  lose  their  century  as  they 
lose  their  colour." 

"  I  know  now,"  he  said. 

She  looked  at  him,  and  he  saw  that  she  understood. 
"  Was  I  right  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  You  made  one  promise,"  he  replied,  "  that  you 
can  never  fulfil :  you  said  that  you  would  show  me 
how  we  differed." 

"  Where  have  you  been  ? "  she  asked,  smiling 
faintly.  "  Did  you  make  friends  ? " 

"  That  will  come,"  he  said ;  "  meanwhile  I  have  met 
with  a  magic  stronger  than  my  own." 

"  You  will  not  burn  your  books  ? " 

"  My  books  ? "  he  said  quickly.  "  There  is  nothing 
in  them — not  one  creature  with  the  breath  of  life. 
You  can  do  what  I  have  never  done." 

"  You  have  done  more  than  I,"  she  said.  "  Your 
people  are  phantoms,  but  you  created  them ;  mine  are 
real,  but  I  have  only  drawn  them  as  I  saw  them." 

"  No,"  he  said ;  "  you  succeed  where  I  have  failed. 
There  must  be  life  in  the  Future,  but  I  have  not 
found  it." 

"  It  is  not  the  explorer's  fault,"  she  said,  with  a 
gentle  earnestness  that  made  his  pulse  leap ;  "  but  in 


THE  CAP  OF  DARKNESS  115 

the  land  of  bare  possibilities  there  can  be  no  one  to 
love.  Love  is  the  child  of  memory;  it  is  the  old 
countries  that  are  warm  and  full  of  friends." 

He  was  silent ;  the  mere  name  of  love  from  her  lips 
was  more  than  he  could  bear ;  his  heart  roared  in  his 
ears  like  a  storm  in  mid-ocean. 

"  If  your  friends  are  to  be  mine,"  he  said  at  last, 
"  no  one  but  you  can  take  me  there." 

It  was  a  sudden  and  dangerous  moment;  one 
tremor  of  the  hand  upon  the  wheel,  and  mid-ocean 
would  have  broken  full  upon  her.  But  she  heard  the 
change  in  his  voice,  and  was  not  to  be  taken  by 
surprise. 

"  I  have  thought  of  that,"  she  said  quietly ;  "  but 
to  be  hasty  would  spoil  everything.  It  is  further 
than  you  think  to  the  old  house  across  the  valley  there, 
and  it  would  be  better  to  know  the  risks  before  you 
start.  You  talk  of  a  magic  stronger  than  your  own ; 
but  you  have  not  yet  seen  how  strong  it  may  be,  and 
you  are  mistaken  in  thinking  it  is  mine  to  control. 
You  take  it  for  a  kind  of  literary  gift  in  me — a  power 
to  convince  by  words,  to  make  less  real,  less  living 
people  appear  almost  as  real  and  living  as  those  we  live 
among.  But  that  is  the  opposite  of  the  truth.  To 
revisit  the  past  in  my  way  is  to  strip  off  illusions,  not 
to  put  them  on.  Time  is  the  greatest  of  all  illusions ; 
it  persuades  us  that  our  most  fantastic  dream  is  true — 


116  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

the  dream  that  things  and  people  come  into  being  and 
pass  out  of  being  again — though  we  know,  if  we  once 
think  of  it,  that  eternity  is  a  single  instant,  and  that 
there  are  but  two  kinds  of  things  or  people — those  that 
are,  and  those  that  are  not.  Those  of  us  who  are  at  all 
are  every  one  contemporaries ;  but  we  live,  as  it  were, 
like  figures  in  a  tapestry — invisible  to  each  other,  and 
fondly  imagining  we  are  made  of  different  thread  to  our 
neighbours,  whom  we  have  never  seen.  There  is  no 
reason  why  we  should  not  see  them ;  they  are  here  as 
much  as  we  are ;  we  have  only  to  take  the  cap  of 
darkness  from  our  heads  and  find  them  as  human  as 
ourselves.  In  childhood  we  are  wise;  we  know  no 
difference  between  the  centuries ;  but  it  is  the  first 
business  of  our  teachers  to  lay  stress  upon  the  trivial 
contrasts  of  speech  and  dress  which  they  think  will 
make  the  wooden  peepshow  of  their  history  attractive ; 
the  rest — the  life  we  share — they  know  nothing  about. 
I  remember  asking  my  first  governess  if  she  had  ever 
seen  the  Black  Prince,  and  whether  he  was  like  any 
one  I  knew.  She  scolded  me  for  a  silly  child ;  but  I 
have  lived  to  know  him  intimately,  and  to  see  his  com- 
rades giving  their  own  breakfast  to  a  conquered  Boer 
army.  They  did  not  know  that  they  were  five  centuries 
out  of  date." 

Stephen  was  silent.     The  great  moment  had  come 
and  gone  without  result ;  she  had  succeeded  in  keeping 


THE  CAP  OF  DARKNESS  117 

her  course,  and  the  wave  had  rolled  on  and  spent  itself. 
Before  another  could  gather  she  was  speaking  again. 

"  I  am  sure  you  have  not  forgotten  your  childhood," 
she  said ;  "  you  must  know  that  sudden  falling  from 
you,  that  vanishing  of  the  sense  of  time.  I  re- 
member when  it  first  happened  to  me  I  was  in  a  field 
full  of  cowslips  and  ladysmocks,  near  a  little  brook 
where  there  were  minnows.  My  sisters  had  run  on  and 
left  me,  and  when  I  stood  up  from  dabbling  in  the 
water  I  found  myself  in  a  world  without  hours  or 
minutes.  I  wandered  about  all  day  by  myself,  and  was 
brought  home  at  dusk  by  a  search  party.  Afterwards 
I  found  that  I  could  always  bring  this  feeling  back  by 
sitting  down  alone  and  saying  my  own  name  over  and 
over  many  times ;  then  I  discovered  that  by  repeating 
in  the  same  way  the  name  of  any  of  my  favourite 
heroes  in  history  I  could  get  nearer  to  them  than  by 
all  the  pictures  in  the  books.  Their  outward  selves 
vanished  like  my  own,  and  we  lived  together  as  one 
lives  with  intimate  friends,  by  sympathy  rather  than  by 
the  eyes." 

"  Yes,"  said  Stephen,  "  I  do  remember  something  of 
that  feeling,  though  I  had  long  forgotten  it.  But  the 
magic  of  a  name " 

She  rose  to  go  indoors.  "  Be  careful,"  she  said  as 
they  crossed  the  terrace ;  "  do  nothing  rashly ;  an  ex- 
plorer should  always  think  of  his  return."  She  laughed 


118  THE  OLD  COUNTEY 

with  the  half-caressing,  half-mocking  laugh  that  was 
always  Stephen's  dearest  memory  of  her.  "  I  have 
often  thought,"  she  said,  "  that  perhaps  some  day  I  may 
lose  my  cap  of  darkness  once  for  all,  and  have  to  stay 
the  other  side  the  valley  altogether." 

"  Then  I  shall  lead  the  search  party,"  he  said. 

"Thank  you,"  she  replied  as  they  reached  the 
verandah.  "  I  should  like  that,  if  it  is  not  too  much 
out  of  your  way." 


XVIII 

WHEN  Stephen  found  himself  alone  in  his  own  room,  he 
knew  that  sleep  was  far  from  him.  His  mind  had  never 
been  so  clear  and  active,  his  recollection  so  vivid,  his 
every  nerve  so  perfectly  in  tune.  The  entire  field  of  his 
consciousness  seemed  to  lie  before  him  like  a  smooth, 
unbroken  sheet  of  ice,  upon  which  glided  a  hundred 
images  in  a  crowd  that  was  never  a  confusion,  endlessly 
crossing  one  another's  track  in  swift  and  unforeseen 
figures,  but  never  wavering  from  the  symmetry  of  their 
curves,  and  always  returning  to  the  centre  at  the 
moment  when  they  neared  the  outer  darkness.  Beyond 
doubt  they  were  his  own  thoughts,  but  they  were  in 
some  strange  way  external  to  him,  and  he  followed  their 
course  with  a  kind  of  amazement,  for  their  movement 
seemed  to  be  concerted,  and  concerted  by  some  agree- 
ment in  which  his  own  will  had  no  part.  Why,  he 
wondered,  should  every  event,  great  or  small,  of  the 
past  two  days  be  present  to  his  mental  vision  at  the 
same  instant  ?  Why  should  every  thought,  new  or  old, 
combine  to  weave  this  recurrent  tangle  from  which  he 
could  not  even  attempt  to  break  away  ? 

The  problem  was   to   discover   the  nature  of  the 

119 


120  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

change  which  had  taken  place  in  him.     His  love  for 
Aubrey  had  ripened  swiftly  into  passion.     Was  that  the 
secret  of  this  starry  dance  ?    Was  he  merely  bewitched 
by  her  music,  her  delicate  mockery,  her  devotion  to  the 
soil  of  her  birthplace,  her  deep  religious   sense,  her 
historic  imagination  ?    It  might  well  have  been,  but  he 
saw  with  clear  and  instant  conviction  that  it  was  not 
so.    That  sudden  new  experience,  which  had  come  upon 
him  twice  during  liis  first  walk  to  Gardenleigh,  that 
certainty  that  he  was  remembering  places  which  to  his 
knowledge  he  had  never  seen  before,  seemed  to  have  no 
traceable  connection  with  Aubrey  or  the  spells  she  had 
cast  round  him.   Was  it  in  the  place  itself,  this  dreamy, 
untouched  corner  of  the  West,  that  the  charm  lay  ? 
There  was  beauty  enough  here,  by  day  or  night,  but 
that  which  had  enchanted  him  was  the  beauty  which 
lay  behind  the  visible  scene,  the  glimpses  of  the  time- 
less country  into  which  not  the  magic  of  the  earth,  but 
the  voice  of  a  child,  had  enabled  him  to  pass  for  a 
moment.     Aubrey  and  the  child — they  both  knew  the 
secret;  but  it  was  not  their  own;  it  was  no  human  imagi- 
nation, but  a  birthright  of  the  soul.    Why  had  he  waited 
until  now  to  claim  it,  and  by  what  design  was  he  at  this 
moment  so  hemmed  in  and  whirled  along  in  darkness  ? 
Upon  the  table  before  him  lay  Aubrey's  book,  and 
he  set  himself  to  read  it  in  the  hope  of  stilling  the 
whirl  of  his  thoughts.    But  though  his  mind,  under  the 


THE  JOURNEY  121 

guidance  of  hers,  quickly  freed  itself  from  the  eddy  in 
which  it  had  been  revolving,  it  found  a  fresh  perplexity 
in  the  very  vividness  and  fascination  of  the  narrative. 
As  he  read  the  story  of  those  lives,  so  ardent,  so 
complete,  so  tenderly  coloured,  they  became  more  living 
and  more  present  to  his  imagination  than  the  circle  into 
which  he  had  followed  the  Aubrey  of  everyday  life. 
The  faces  and  voices  among  which  he  had  spent  these 
two  days  seemed  to  become  faint  and  recede  into  a 
distance  which  took  from  them  all  their  vitality : 
Aubrey  alone  still  breathed,  and  kept  her  human  speech 
and  laughter.  The  more  he  thought  of  her  the  less  she 
appeared  to  have  in  common  with  these  toneless  and 
attenuated  figures,  or  with  the  brief  and  trivial  concerns 
in  which  they  were  involved.  She  seemed  to  belong  to 
the  world  which  she  had  called  up  for  him,  and  he  felt 
that  if  he  was  ever  to  find  and  hold  her  real  self  it 
must  be  there. 

The  night  was  now  far  advanced,  and  he  was  more 
and  more  restless.  He  longed  to  be  back  in  the  moon- 
light that  still  lay  faintly  cool  upon  the  terrace  below 
his  window.  The  darkened  house,  as  he  went  down, 
seemed  to  lie  in  a  mortal  sleep,  and  when  he  reached 
the  garden  and  looked  back  at  it,  he  saw  it  as  a  huge 
and  stately  tomb,  and  thought  of  all  within  it  as 
belonging  to  an  irrevocable  past, 

The  moon  was  far  down  towards  her  setting.    As 


122  THE  OLD  COUNTKY 

she  dipped  below  the  trees,  Stephen,  to  whom  nothing 
could  now  have  appeared  strange  or  incredible,  saw  a 
cloaked  figure  come  out  upon  the  upper  terrace  and 
move  quickly  towards  the  green  slope  of  the  garden. 
It  was  the  figure  of  a  woman,  and  surely  there  was  but 
one  woman  who  could  still  be  moving  with  the  grace  of 
life  by  this  great  sepulchre  of  a  buried  generation.  She 
came  towards  him  down  the  steps,  passed  without  a 
sign  by  the  dark  yew  tree  under  which  he  stood  waiting, 
and  turned  to  the  left  below  him  into  the  shadowy 
alley  which  led,  he  knew,  to  the  gate  of  the  church 
path.  He  listened  for  the  clang  of  the  iron  latch,  but 
no  sound  came,  and  after  a  while  he  followed  to  the 
gate.  When  he  reached  it,  he  found  it  standing  wide 
open ;  outside  the  sky  was  fading  into  dawn,  and  there 
was  no  one  in  sight.  He  strode  quickly  up  the  rising 
path,  and  as  he  reached  the  highest  point  he  saw  among 
the  trees  below  the  flutter  of  a  white  dress  passing 
quickly  between  the  upper  lakes  and  into  the  green 
obscurity  beyond.  Again,  when  he  followed,  there  was 
nothing  to  be  seen  of  it ;  but  as  the  sky  above  the  far 
end  of  the  lake  was  flushing  with  the  blue  and  crimson 
that  comes  before  the  sun,  he  stood  in  the  growing 
light  upon  the  further  bank  and  looked  up  at  the  yellow 
mullions  and  gray  weathered  chimneys  of  the  old 
house. 


XIX 

THE  hour  of  dawn  is  to  most  men  unfamiliar;  but 
Stephen  in  his  wanderings  had  seen  the  sun  rise  on 
many  lands,  and  knew  well  the  keen  shivering  delight 
of  all  the  senses  that  comes  at  the  moment  when  the 
new  day  floods  the  world  with  new  life  and  power  and 
gratitude.  When  this  feeling  had  passed  into  the  quiet, 
half-drowsy  mood  of  utter  contentment  that  so  often 
follows  it,  he  climbed  the  hill  above  the  house,  and  sat 
long  among  the  faint  and  changing  shadows  of  the  trees 
that  hung  upon  the  edge  of  the  down,  waiting  for  some 
sign  to  give  him  a  forward  impulse  and  a  clue  to  the 
unknown  path.  Dream  after  dream  floated  past  him  as 
the  sunlight  poured  more  and  more  warmly  into  his 
veins,  and  many  dreamlike  recollections  of  his  past 
life  mingled  in  the  ceaseless  drift.  He  knew  the  real 
from  the  imaginary,  but  there  seemed  to  be  no  longer 
any  difference  in  their  importance ;  all  the  pictures  in 
the  book  were  equally  shadowy,  equally  fit  for  the  idle 
contemplation  of  the  soul  in  its  place  apart.  He  saw, 
too,  without  any  amazement,  that  here  and  there  in  the 
landscape  before  him  there  were  unfamiliar  aspects, 
slight  changes  such  as  those  to  be  felt  rather  than  seen 

123 


124  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

after  a  period  of  absence;  and  from  the  opposite  hill 
the  house  from  which  he  had  come  last  night  had  dis- 
appeared without  a  trace,  though  the  avenues  and  the 
old  walled  garden  still  remained.  This  was  the  world 
he  knew,  but  not  the  world  as  he  had  known  it ;  its 
form  and  beauty  were  the  same,  but  not  its  relation  to 
himself.  Perhaps  it  was  not  upon  the  place,  but  upon 
him  that  change  had  come ;  was  it,  he  wondered,  that 
change  which  comes  to  all  men  in  their  turn,  the  end  of 
so  much  they  have  known,  the  beginning  of  that  which 
they  have  never  known  ?  It  seemed  possible  enough  ; 
but  the  common  name  for  such  a  change  he  tried  in 
vain  to  remember,  or,  if  he  remembered,  he  rejected  it 
as  having  no  longer  the  meaning  he  required  to  match 
his  new  experience. 

His  reverie  was  broken  by  vague  sounds  of  move- 
ment in  the  house  below,  and  he  saw  that  between  the 
clear  expanse  of  the  lake  and  the  height  from  which  he 
looked  the  air  was  dimmed  by  a  column  of  faint  blue 
smoke.  It  told  him  that  here,  too,  were  men,  for  here 
there  was  a  hearth  and  daily  fire  upon  it ;  here,  then,  it 
might  be  Aubrey  herself  that  he  would  find,  and  no 
elusive  phantom.  At  the  same  moment  the  beat  of 
hoofs  came  rapidly  over  the  turf  behind  him,  and  he 
saw  two  horses  approaching  by  the  avenue  across  the 
down.  One  was  riderless,  but  laden  with  packs  on 
either  side ;  the  other  carried  a  groom,  who  seemed  to  be 


THE  ABRIVAL  125 

upon  this  road  for  the  first  time,  for  he  halted  and 
looked  about  him  when  he  came  to  the  steep  pitch 
where  the  path  turned  down  the  face  of  the  hill.  But 
he  passed  on  in  a  moment,  and  Stephen  saw  him 
disappear  through  the  stable  gateway  on  the  far  side 
of  the  road,  and  heard  the  clatter  of  the  horses  as  they 
were  pulled  up  in  the  stony  courtyard.  At  the  same 
instant  a  feeling  of  satisfaction  came  over  him,  as  if 
at  the  accomplishment  of  a  journey :  he  knew  that  at 
last  he  had  arrived  at  Gardenleigh,  and  that  nothing 
remained  for  him  but  to  descend  and  enter. 


XX 

THE  square-headed  doorway  of  the  porch  stood  open, 
and  from  it  as  he  approached  came  the  figure  of  a  priest 
with  both  hands  outstretched  in  welcome. 

"  Stephen ! "  said  a  quiet  cordial  voice  that  was  not 
the  voice  of  a  stranger ;  "  here  you  are  at  last,  after  all 
these  years." 

Stephen  gripped  the  hands  that  met  his  own,  and 
looked  straight  and  hard  into  the  eyes  that  faced  him. 

"  Edmund ! "  he  said ;  and  then,  with  sudden  wonder, 
"  but  how  did  you  know  me  ? " 

"  We  were  expecting  you,"  replied  the  other,  "  and 
they  told  me  that  your  man  had  come  already.  Besides, 
you  are  far  less  changed  than  I  must  be." 

Stephen  looked  again  at  the  clear-cut,  intellectual 
face ;  it  certainly  bore  the  stamp  of  more  than  its 
forty-five  years.  The  brown  eyes  and  broad  forehead 
were  still  beautiful  and  serene,  but  pain  and  hard  work 
had  drawn  lines  downward  on  each  side  of  the  mouth, 
and  set  the  lips  together  as  the  lips  of  youth  are  never 
set.  He  realized  with  a  quick  stirring  of  sympathy 
that  what  he  had  read  of  this  man  was  something  more 
man  a  vivid  tale. 

I2G 


THE  MABLANDS  127 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "you  have  been  through  a  hard 
time ;  I  have  heard  it  all,  but  some  day  I  must  hear  it 
all  again  from  you." 

"  I  can  never  tell  it  all,"  said  Edmund,  "  and  I  am 
not  sure  that  the  worst  is  not  yet  to  come.  You  must 
expect,"  he  added,  quickening  his  speech  as  if  to  change 
the  subject,  "  to  find  my  father  quite  an  old  man  now ; 
but  my  mother  is  wonderful.  She  is  as  bright  as  ever, 
and  she  is  particularly  happy  at  present  because  she 
has  Aubrey  with  her." 

Stephen  felt  his  heart  fail  and  leap  forward  again ; 
the  power  of  speech  deserted  him.  Awake  or  dreaming, 
in  one  world  or  another,  his  whole  consciousness  was 
gathered  up  into  one  thought,  concentrated  for  one 
effort.  He  followed  Edmund  in  silence  through  the 
hall,  where  servants  were  moving  about,  into  an  empty 
room  beyond,  and  out  upon  a  stone-flagged  ambulatory 
on  the  eastern  side  of  the  house.  There  in  the  clear 
morning  sunlight  lay  a  table  spread  for  breakfast ;  but 
there  were  only  two  persons  seated  at  it,  and  neither  of 
them  was  Aubrey. 

The  first  to  greet  Stephen  was  Lady  Marland.  She 
was  singularly  bright-eyed,  and  her  voice  had  a  high, 
singing  resonance  like  that  of  a  bird.  The  delicate 
proportions  of  her  small  figure  and  the  quickness  of  her 
movements  added  to  the  resemblance.  She  looked,  as 
Edmund  had  said,  wonderfully  young  and  active  by 


128  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

contrast  with  her  husband,  who  wore  a  black-velvet 
skull-cap  over  his  silver  hair,  and  rose  from  his  seat 
slowly  and  with  some  difficulty.  His  face  was  thin  and 
worn,  but  it  was  not  melancholy ;  the  white  eyebrows 
were  habitually  arched  with  an  expression  of  almost 
humorous  resignation,  as  of  one  who,  after  heavy  losses, 
could  still  protest  that  life  was  giving  him  more  than 
a  useless  old  fellow  had  any  right  to  claim.  But  he 
was  evidently  weak,  and  there  was  a  weariness  in  his 
voice  that  pierced  even  through  the  genial  and  charming 
courtesy  with  which  he  welcomed  his  guest. 

They  all  sat  down,  and  breakfast  began.  Stephen 
was  placed  with  his  back  to  the  wall,  that  he  might 
enjoy  the  view  of  the  lake ;  but  his  senses  were  alert  to 
catch  every  sound  in  the  house  behind  him,  and  he 
returned  but  absent-minded  replies  to  the  first  con- 
ventional remarks  of  his  hostess. 

"You  have  not  quite  forgotten  Gardenleigh,  I 
hope  ? "  she  began.  "  It  must  be  twenty  years  since 
you  were  here.  You  have  been  a  great  traveller ;  we 
have  heard  something  of  your  wanderings." 

"  My  dear,"  said  Sir  Henry  very  gently  to  his  wife, 
"  we  must  not  ask  Stephen  too  many  questions ;  by- 
and-by  he  will  tell  us  whatever  he  wishes  us  to  know 
about  himself.  What  you  do  tell  us,"  he  added,  turning 
gravely  to  Stephen,  "will  be  told  to  old  friends  who 
always  thought  your  father  right  wherever  he  was." 


THE  MARLANDS  129 

Lady  Marland  patted  her  husband's  hand  re- 
assuringly. 

"I  was  going  to  ask  about  Italy,"  she  said,  "not 
about  any  private  affairs.  Aubrey  has  been  in  Italy 
too." 

Stephen  started  perceptibly. 

"  You  remember  your  old  playfellow  Aubrey  ?  "  she 
continued. 

"  Not  very  likely,  my  dear  mother,"  said  Edmund  ; 
"  she  must  have  been  a  mere  child." 

"Where  is  Aubrey?"  asked  Sir  Henry.  "Why 
doesn't  she  come  to  breakfast  ? " 

"She  has  been  out  early,"  said  Lady  Marland; 
"  and  when  I  came  down  she  had  fallen  asleep  again  ; 
I  did  not  like  to  wake  her." 

She  half  rose,  as  if  to  go  in  search,  but  sat  back  with 
an  exclamation. 

Stephen  turned  quickly,  and  saw  Aubrey  standing 
be°ide  him,  with  the  warm  flush  of  life  on  her  cheeks 
and  the  old  gleam  of  bright  mischief  in  her  eyes. 
She  held  out  her  hand  to  him  with  perfect  natural- 
ness, but  he  looked  in  vain  for  any  sign  to  show  him 
how  far  she  shared  with  him  in  this  new  life  the  recol- 
lection of  the  old. 

"  I  am  not  late,"  she  said ;  "  I  am  earlier  than  any 
of  you.  I  have  been  up  to  the  garden  to  see  the  sun 
rise." 

I 


130  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

"  Aubrey  is  always  straying,"  said  Lady  Marland  to 
Stephen,  "  and  she  will  go  alone." 

"  It  is  a  dangerous  habit,"  said  Stephen,  in  the  same 
light  tone ;  but  turning  to  Aubrey  and  looking  intently 
at  her :  "  You  might  stray  too  far  some  day,  and  never 
come  back." 

Her  eyes  told  him  nothing.  "  In  the  garden  ?  "  she 
replied.  "  How  can  one  stray  too  far  in  a  garden  ? 
And  why  should  I  not  come  back  ?  Unless  some  one 
would  build  me  a  house  up  there,"  she  added.  "  If  I 
lived  at  Gardenleigh,  it  would  certainly  be  on  the  hill, 
and  not  down  here." 

Was  this  unconscious  or  wilfully  perverse,  or  was 
she  intentionally  delaying  the  explanation  until  they 
were  alone  ?  It  might  well  be  so ;  but  as  the  talk  went 
on,  and  he  heard  her  call  him  by  his  name,  as  an  old 
friend  of  her  childhood,  while  her  every  look  and  her 
very  frankness  denied  him.  any  other  acquaintance,  a 
fierce  impatience  seized  him  to  compel  the  truth  from 
her,  When  breakfast  ended,  and  he  found  himself 
alone  with  her  for  a  moment — 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said,  "  after  all  this  change " 

"  Yes,"  she  replied  gaily,  "  after  all  this  change  ? " 

"  Is  it  possible  that  you  remember  me  as  well  as  I 
remember  you  ? " 

"  Quite  possible,"  she  replied  laughing,  "  if  you 
remember  very  little  of  me." 


THE  MARLANDS  131 

"  But  I  remember — it  would  take  long  to  tell  you 
how  much." 

"Then  we  are  certainly  not  on  equal  terms,"  she 
said ;  "  but,  at  any  rate,  I  think  I  may  say  I  am  glad  to 
meet  you  again." 

"Do  you  mean,"  he  asked,  "that  we  are  to  begin 
afresh  from  so  small  a  foundation  as  that  ?  " 

"  Oh ! "  she  replied ;  "  but  what  does  the  beginning 
matter,  so  long  as  it  is  a  beginning  ? " 

Nothing  could  be  kinder  than  her  manner,  nothing 
more  unconscious ;  and  yet,  as  she  turned  to  leave  him, 
he  seemed  once  more  to  catch  a  passing  glimmer  of  the 
faint  mockery  he  had  so  long  known  and  adored. 


XXI 

As  the  sun  climbed  higher  and  higher,  and  the  day 
began  to  pass  from  the  freshness  of  morning  towards 
the  long  hours  of  noon,  Stephen  lost  all  sense  of  new- 
ness in  his  surroundings;  the  change  that  he  remem- 
bered seemed  to  concern  his  present  life  and  thoughts 
as  little  as  a  tale  of  childhood,  or  the  recollection  of 
some  holiday  once  spent  in  foreign  travel.  There  was 
nothing  strange  in  the  delight  with  which  he  breathed 
the  warm,  scented  June  air,  and  felt  the  beat  of  the 
dusty  buttercups  about  his  insteps  as  he  walked  through 
the  park  with  Edmund  by  the  side  of  Sir  Henry's  old 
pony.  It  seemed  to  be  the  object  of  his  companions  to 
spare  him  the  embarrassment  of  questions,  while  giving 
him  freely  every  kind  of  information  about  their  own 
concerns.  The  reason  of  this  he  did  not  understand, 
but  it  was  evidently  connected  in  their  minds  with  old 
troubles  outside  his  own  present  knowledge,  and  the 
delicacy  of  their  attitude  freed  him  from  difficulties 
which  he  had  not  had  time  even  to  apprehend.  His 
own  affairs  being  thus  put  aside  by  tacit  consent,  he 
found  himself  drawn  immediately  into  those  of  the 
Marlands,  and  carried  away  upon  a  stream  both  deep 

132 


GRANDISON    V.  TREMUR  133 

and  turbulent.  The  world  had  been  to  him,  until  he 
met  with  Aubrey,  a  spectacle  rather  than  a  contest, 
and  to  this  moment  he  had  personally  known  but  one 
strong  emotion,  one  possible  cause  of  battle ;  for  though 
he  had  written  ardently  and  sincerely  of  the  future  and 
its  hopes,  he  had  yet  to  feel  the  clenched  anger  and 
desperate  resolution  with  which  a  man  of  his  breed 
turns  to  face  iron  facts  and  a  living  enemy. 

The  nature  of  the  trouble  that  was  evidently  weigh- 
ing upon  his  new  friends  he  did  not  perceive  all  at 
once.  On  the  following  day,  they  told  him,  he  would 
have  the  privilege  of  making  the  acquaintance  of  one  of 
the  most  notable  men  in  England.  Their  old  friend  and 
patron,  the  Bishop  of  Exeter,  had  written  to  announce 
that  he  would  honour  Gardenleigh  with  a  visit  on  his 
way  from  Bath  into  Devonshire.  Sir  Henry  spoke 
with  profound  admiration  and  respect  of  his  coming 
guest,  and  explained  to  Stephen  at  some  length  the 
grounds,  public  and  private,  upon  which  these  feelings 
were  based. 

John  Grandison,  Bishop  of  Exeter  since  1327,  was, 
it  appeared,  by  birth  and  education,  and  still  more  by 
character  and  achievements,  a  prelate  of  the  highest 
distinction.  It  was,  to  begin  with,  no  small  thing  to  be 
the  son  of  William  Lord  Grandison.  This  aristocratic 
soldier  of  fortune,  a  captain,  knight  banneret  and  baron 
of  Edward  the  First,  was  a  younger  son,  and  eventually 


134  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

the  chief,  of  the  famous  Burgundian  house  whose 
principal  stronghold  has  overlooked  the  Lake  of  Neu- 
chatel  from  a  time  beyond  memory.  He  claimed 
kinship  with  the  Emperor;  his  grandmother  was  a 
cousin  of  Eleanor  of  Provence,  his  mother  a  daughter 
of  De  Vaud,  and  his  wife — John's  mother — a  great- 
niece  of  Bishop  Cantilupe,  canonized  as  St.  Thomas  of 
Hereford.  She  was,  moreover,  heiress  to  one-half  of 
the  vast  estates  of  her  father,  Lord  Tregoze. 

John,  the  second  son  of  this  last  alliance,  was  bred 
to  the  Church  under  auspices  that  befitted  his  descent. 
He  read  theology  at  the  University  of  Paris  under 
Jacques  Fournier,  who  was  afterwards  to  exchange  the 
professorial  for  the  Papal  chair.  At  an  early  age 
young  Grandison  became  Archdeacon  of  Nottingham, 
and  soon  afterwards  Prebend  of  Lincoln  and  Chaplain 
to  His  Holiness  at  Avignon.  Finally,  after  confiden- 
tial employment  as  Papal  Ambassador  and  other 
marks  of  the  highest  favour,  he  was  sent  to  Exeter  at 
the  age  of  thirty-five.  There  he  found  himself  in  a 
position  of  unexampled  difficulty,  faced  by1  turbulent 
nobles,  insolent  monks,  and  a  rough  and  independent 
populace,  with  a  cathedral  in  danger  of  becoming 
ruinous,  and  a  diocese  upon  the  verge  of  bankruptcy. 
But  he  was  more  than  equal  to  the  task.  From  the 
first  he  had  held  his  own  against  all  opposition  and 
triumphed  over  every  kind  of  obstacle :  when  in  1353 


GRANDISON    V.  TREMUB  135 

— the  twenty-sixth  year  of  his  episcopate — he  com- 
pleted and  reopened  the  nave  of  his  great  church,  he 
had  for  years  ruled  the  two  wild  western  counties  with 
a  hand  of  iron. 

All  this,  and  a  good  deal  more,  Sir  Henry  now 
recounted  to  Stephen  with  evident  appreciation,  but  in 
a  tone  of  depression  which  made  it  sound  almost  like 
an  estimate  of  the  overwhelming  power  of  a  dreaded 
adversary.  For  the  explanation  of  this  attitude  Stephen 
had  not  long  to  wait.  There  were  many  orders  to  be 
given  in  preparation  for  to-morrow ;  Sir  Henry  was 
bound  for  the  gamekeeper's  lodge,  and  Edmund  and 
Stephen,  leaving  him  there,  were  to  walk  on  through 
the  wood  to  an  outlying  farm.  For  the  first  few 
minutes  after  parting  company  they  spoke  of  indifferent 
subjects,  and  then  fell  into  a  silence,  from  which 
Edmund  at  last  roused  himself  with  an  effort. 

"  You  must  be  wondering,"  he  said,  "  why  we 
should  look  forward  with  such  heavy  hearts  to  the 
coming  of  an  old  and  valued  friend,  especially  when  he 
is  at  the  same  time  one  whose  presence  is  an  honour 
in  itself.  But  it  is  the  very  depth  of  our  obligation  to 
him  which  increases  our  apprehension.  My  father  has 
enjoyed  his  friendship  for  five  and  twenty  years.  I 
owe  to  him  my  appointment  at  Plymouth,  and  many 
other  kindnesses ;  and  now  for  the  first  time  we  find  our- 
selves in  danger  of  his  serious  and  lasting  displeasure." 


136  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

Stephen  looked  up  in  surprise,  and  his  astonish- 
ment deepened  as  he  saw  the  stern  expression  of  his 
companion's  face,  in  which  there  appeared  to  his  eye 
every  sign  of  resolve  and  not  one  of  submission. 
Edmund  caught  his  glance  and  seemed  to  under- 
stand it. 

"We  admit  our  obligations  to  the  full,"  he  said. 
"  The  Bishop  has  every  right,  human  and  divine,  to 
call  upon  our  loyalty.  Unhappily  in  this  matter  there 
are  also  upon  the  other  side  claims  which  we  cannot 
deny.  To  be  quite  frank,  we  do  not  wish  to  deny 
them,  and  I  see  at  this  moment  no  way  out  of  the 
strait  place  we  are  in ;  it  seems  as  if  every  grain  of  us 
must  be  ground  between  the  upper  and  the  nether 
millstone." 

"  What  is  the  nether  millstone  \ "  asked  Stephen. 
"  What  are  these  other  claims  ?  " 

"  I  will  tell  you,"  said  Edmund,  "  but  for  my  own 
sake  rather  than  yours.  The  story  is  a  long  one  and 
full  of  perplexity ;  if  it  were  not  that  I  hope  for  some 
comfort  from  you,  and  possibly  for  some  help  in  the 
strain  of  the  next  few  days,  I  should  be  loth  to  burden 
you  with  it." 

Stephen  protested  his  readiness  to  be  of  service  in 
any  possible  way,  and  after  another  interval  of  silence 
Edmund  began  again. 

"  I  forget  whether  you  ever  knew  my  friend  Ralph 


GRANDISON    V.  TREMUR  137 

Tremur,  but  you  must,  at  any  rate,  have  heard  of 
him?" 

"  I  have  heard,"  said  Stephen,  "  that  he  was 
ordained,  and  proceeded  to  a  family  living  in  Cornwall." 

"  True,"  said  Edmund ;  "  but  that  is  long  ago :  the 
wind  has  blown  many  ways  since  then.  Ealph  was 
not  born  for  the  Church — at  least,  not  to  be  happy  in 
it.  It  sounds  strange,  perhaps,  for  me  to  say  that,  for 
it  was  through  him  that  I  came  to  take  Orders  myself; 
but  I  knew  him  at  Oxford  better  than  any  one,  and  I 
had  many  misgivings  about  his  career  even  then.  It 
was  impossible  to  suppose  that  a  man  of  his  extra- 
ordinary abilities  and  vehement  character  could  ever 
be  content  for  long  with  the  life  of  an  obscure  country 
parson.  He  took  the  living  to  please  his  parents,  but 
he  obtained  leave  of  non-residence  at  the  same  time, 
and  stayed  up  at  Oxford  for  another  year.  At  the  end 
of  that  time  he  got  the  Bishop  to  extend  his  leave,  and 
again  at  the  end  of  the  year  found  it  impossible  to 
tear  himself  away.  He  applied  once  more  for  an 
extension,  and  I  must  say  that  he  was  treated  with 
more  forbearance  than  he  had  any  right  to  expect. 
The  Bishop  was  never  lax  in  discipline;  he  resided 
continuously  himself,  and  he  expected  others  to  do  the 
same.  But  he  sympathized  in  this  case  with  a  brilliant 
and  devoted  scholar,  and  perhaps  he  thought  he  might 
make  a  great  servant  of  the  Church  out  of  him.  He 


138  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

gave  Ealph  leave  of  absence  for  a  third  year,  but 
warned  him  that  it  was  the  last  time  he  would  listen 
to  such  a  request.  By  the  beginning  of  the  following 
October  he  must  be  in  residence  at  Warleggan.  This 
was  in  1333;  the  year  passed  in  futile  attempts  at 
persuasion,  and  a  month  before  the  date  named  Ealph 
had  resigned  his  living.  It  is  hard  to  blame  him ;  he 
had  no  rival  of  his  own  age  at  the  University,  either  in 
scholarship  or  philosophy,  and  he  is  gifted  in  other 
ways  as  well.  He  speaks  with  equal  fluency  in  Latin, 
French,  English,  and  the  Cornish  dialect  of  his  own 
county.  No  preferment  seemed  to  be  beyond  his 
reach,  and  we  hoped  that  his  choice  might  prove  to 
have  been  justified  in  principle,  though  his  best  friends 
regretted  the  abruptness  of  his  methods." 

"  But  surely,"  said  Stephen,  as  his  companion 
paused  for  a  moment,  "the  Bishop  cannot  still  be 
pursuing  a  fault  of  more  than  twenty  years  ago  ?  Is 
he  so  vindictive  ? " 

"Not  vindictive,  but  tenacious,"  replied  Edmund. 
"  He  never  gives  up  a  point  he  has  once  taken.  In 
this  case  he  would  have  forgiven  if  Ealph  had  kept 
out  of  his  way ;  but  he  would  never  have  forgotten,  for 
he  never  forgets  anything,  and  unhappily  it  is  Ealph 
himself  who  has  kept  his  memory  awake.  He  failed 
to  find  the  wider  opening  for  which  he  had  thrown  up 
his  humble  duties  at  Warleggan — I  have  never  asked 


GRANDISON    F.  TREMUR  139 

why,  but  his  temperament  is  a  sufficient  explanation — 
and  as  he  became  more  and  more  dissatisfied  with 
Oxford,  he  took  to  haunting  the  neighbourhood  of  his 
old  home.  He  had  always  been  liked  down  there ;  the 
rector  who  succeeded  him  was  unpopular,  and  there 
was  a  quarrel  which  came  to  the  Bishop's  ears.  The 
matter  was  not  thoroughly  looked  into,  and  I  think 
that  this  time  Ealph  was  unjustly  blamed.  But  he 
went  on  to  a  much  graver  indiscretion.  He  was  always 
of  an  inquiring  and  argumentative  turn;  he  loved  to 
be  in  opposition,  and  would  take  nothing  on  trust.  He 
was  singularly  earnest  and  fearless,  but  religion  was 
to  him  a  matter  of  evidence  rather  than  of  insight." 

Stephen's  interest  was  now  fully  awakened.  "I 
think  I  can  guess  what  is  coming,"  he  said.  "The 
character  you  describe  has  all  the  makings  of  a  great 
heretic." 

"  Yes,"  said  Edmund,  without  flinching,  "  you  have 
said  the  word ;  it  was  in  my  mind  for  years  before  it 
ever  crossed  my  lips.  But  here  we  are  at  the  farm ; 
if  you  will  wait  a  minute  or  two  for  me,  while  I  give 
my  orders,  I  will  tell  you  the  rest  on  our  way  home." 

Stephen  walked  slowly  round  the  pretty  house,  and 
looked  into  the  farmyard,  but  his  thoughts  were  else- 
where. There  was  to  him  something  unexpectedly 
sympathetic  in  the  character  of  this  Ealph,  as  it  had 
been  drawn  by  his  friend  and  fellow-student.  He 


140  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

longed  to  meet  him  and  discuss  with  him  fully  the 
position  of  the  inquiring  mind  confronted  by  authority. 
How  little  he  had  grasped  the  possibilities  of  that 
position  when  both  parties  are  in  deadly  earnest  and 
only  one  is  free,  he  was  soon  to  discover. 

Edmund  quickly  returned,  and  they  set  out  on 
their  homeward  walk,  taking  a  path  which  lay  to  the 
right  of  that  by  which  they  had  come;  it  was  very 
little  longer,  and  would  give  them  a  glimpse  of  another 
valley  to  the  west,  which  was  worth  seeing.  Stephen 
brought  the  conversation  back  into  its  former  channel 
by  warmly  expressing  his  interest  in  the  heretic,  and 
inquiring  what  form  his  heresy  had  taken. 

"I  am  very  glad  you  are  interested,"  replied 
Edmund,  "  because  Ealph  is  a  really  remarkable  man, 
and  yet  with  any  one  who  is  not  to  some  extent  biassed 
in  his  favour  it  is  impossible  for  his  views  to  gain  even 
a  fair  hearing.  He  is  said  to  have  gone  to  extremes, 
to  have  struck  at  the  roots  of  Christianity.  .  .  ."  He 
hesitated  a  moment  and  continued,  "Until  we  can 
hear  from  himself  what  he  really  means,  we  cannot 
accept  such  statements,  but  the  common  report  is  that 
he  has  for  some  time  past  denied  the  doctrine  of  Tran- 
substantiation.  Whatever  his  opinions  may  be,  I  have 
no  doubt  that  they  are  sincere,  and  founded  on  long 
and  careful  study;  but  unhappily  he  could  not  be 
content,  as  many  holders  of  unorthodox  philosophical 


GBANDISON    V.  TEEMUR  141 

views  are,  to  keep  himself  uncommitted  in  public. 
He  is  a  fanatical  lover  of  truth,  and  has  been  for  several 
years  now  preaching  his  heresies  about  the  country  to 
the  common  folk,  both  in  the  diocese  of  Exeter  and 
beyond  it." 

"And  the  Bishop  will  not  stand  that?"  asked 
Stephen. 

"How  could  he?"  replied  Edmund.  "It  seemed 
harmless  enough  to  speak  freely  on  such  subjects 
among  one's  undergraduate  friends  at  Oxford.  Inquiry 
and  disputation  were  in  the  air,  and  those  who  took 
part  in  the  fray  were  all  pretty  equally  capable  of  taking 
care  of  themselves.  But  the  poor  people  of  the  streets 
or  the  villages  are  at  the  mercy  of  a  clever  and 
eloquent  speaker.  He  risks  a  little  mud-throwing; 
but  they  are  in  danger  of  losing  their  eternal  peace. 
The  Bishop  is  responsible  for  their  souls,  and  he  is 
bound,  he  would  say,  to  treat  a  preacher  of  heresy  as 
a  wolf." 

"  Do  you,  then,  side  with  him  ? "  asked  Stephen,  in 
some  surprise. 

"On  the  contrary,  I  put  his  case  as  strongly  as 
I  can  because  I  am  about  to  contend  against  it.  Ealph 
is  my  oldest  and  dearest  friend.  I  know  his  character 
as  the  Bishop  cannot  possibly  know  it,  and  now  that 
I  am  to  have  the  chance  of  speaking  with  him  in 
private,  I  shall  do  my  utmost  to  persuade  him  of 


142  THE  OLD  COUNTEY 

Ralph's  real  goodness.  I  can  say  with  perfect  truth 
that  I  have  never  known  a  more  honest  or  sane  mind, 
or  one  more  genuinely  religious  in  its  own  way.  No 
one  could  seek  truth  more  whole-heartedly — very  few 
Churchmen  can  compare  with  him  there — but  he  is  not 
content  to  seek  it  only  within  the  limits  laid  down  by 
the  Church." 

"  He  claims,  in  fact,  the  right  of  private  judgment  ? " 

"  No,  no,"  said  Edmund,  quickly ;  "  that  is  not  fair. 
As  I  understand  him,  what  he  claims  to  set  up  against 
accepted  doctrines  is  not  his  own  or  any  other  man's 
opinion,  but  a  kind  of  necessary  truth — a  truth  derived, 
he  would  say,  by  strict  reasoning  from  facts  within  the 
range  of  our  ordinary  senses." 

"But  the  Church  does  not  go  so  far  as  to  forbid 
the  study  of  natural  science  ? " 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Edmund ;  "  but  it  teaches  that 
the  knowledge  of  the  material  world  is  of  small  im- 
portance compared  with  that  of  the  spiritual;  so  that 
if  they  conflict,  if  earth  seem  to  tell  us  one  thing  and 
Heaven  another,  it  is  the  voice  of  Heaven  to  which  we 
must  listen." 

"  And  the  voice  of  Heaven  speaks  only  through  the 
mouth  of  the  Church  ? "  asked  Stephen,  with  compressed 
lips. 

"That,"  said  Edmund,  "is  what  Ealph  has  dared 
to  call  in  question.  He  maintains  that  when  two 


GRANDISON    V.  TBEMUR  143 

doctrines  are  opposed,  reason  alone  can  decide  between 
them ;  in  fact,  that  the  voice  of  the  Church  is  only  to 
be  supreme  when  it  accords  with  the  human  under- 
standing." 

"  Well  ? "  said  Stephen,  «  well  ?  "  He  was  chafing 
like  a  hound  in  the  leash.  "What  do  you  think 
yourself? "  he  asked,  almost  fiercely. 

"  In  these  five  years,"  said  Edmund,  "  I  have 
thought  fifty  things  about  it.  I  have  been  torn  this 
way  and  that ;  but  I  am  less  troubled  now.  Do  you 
see  this  wall?"  he  asked  abruptly,  stopping  short  in 
his  walk. 

The  path  they  were  following  had  led  them  from 
the  first  along  the  side  of  a  low  stone  wall,  much  broken 
and  covered  thickly  with  green  moss.  Whatever  its 
original  purpose  had  been,  it  was  now  evidently  no 
more  than  a  landmark. 

"This,"  said  Edmund,  planting  a  foot  against  the 
tumbled  stones,  "is  the  old  boundary  between  the 
manors  of  Gardenleigh  and  Buckland  Barham.  It 
runs,  as  you  have  seen,  right  through  the  centre  of  this 
wood  from  end  to  end,  but  without  dividing  it,  as  it  once 
did,  for  my  father  is  now  lord  of  both  manors,  and 
Gardenleigh  Wood  and  Buckland  Wood  are  one 
continuous  covert — continuous,  that  is,  for  their  lord, 
but  not  by  any  means  so  for  others.  The  two  manors 
have  an  entirely  different  set  of  customs  and  tenures, 


144  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

so  that  to  the  tenants  on  one  side  and  the  other  this 
wall  stands  for  a  real  difference ;  one  half  the  wood 
is  free  to  a  Buckland  man  for  winter  firing,  while 
the  other  half  feeds  the  pigs  of  his  Gardenleigh  neigh- 
bour. I  have  comforted  myself  by  likening  the 
territory  of  our  minds  to  this  old  wood.  There  is  a 
true  line  of  demarcation  between  theology  and  science, 
and  what  is  law  on  one  side  of  it  does  not  necessarily 
hold  good  on  the  other ;  but  there  is  one  lord  of  all, 
and  his  friends  may  enjoy  the  whole  domain.  But  the 
lord,  who  is  himself  only  the  tenant-in-chief  of  the 
King,  is  bound  to  act  justly  by  those  under  him ;  he 
cannot  force  the  customs  of  one  manor  on  those  who 
live  and  work  in  the  other." 

"  Good ! "  said  Stephen ;  "  and  a  very  moderate  way 
of  putting  it  too.  What  answer  will  your  Bishop  find 
to  that  ? " 

Edmund's  face  fell  again.  "The  ploughman  gives 
no  answer  to  the  plough :  he  drives  it  through ;  it  is 
he  who  commands  the  team.  I  am  in  the  Bishop's  hand  ; 
he  is  not  coming  to  consult  me,  but  to  drive  me  like 
iron  through  Ealph's  obstinate  heart." 

"  Defy  him,  then ! "  cried  Stephen,  flaming  up  at 
last.  "  What  has  your  friend  to  fear  ?  If  the  worst 
come  to  the  worst,  he  will  only  be  one  Protestant  the 
more." 

He  had  forgotten  himself;  but  Edmund  seemed  not 


GRANDISON   V.  TBEMUR  145 

to  have  heard  the  words  :  at  any  rate,  he  remained  for 
some  time  silent,  and  when  he  spoke  again  it  was  of 
another  subject.  By  this  time  they  were  once  more 
back  at  the  keeper's  lodge,  and  from  there  they  struck 
across  to  the  house  by  the  way  by  which  they  had 
come  out. 


XXII 

STEPHEN'S  hope  of  a  quiet  afternoon  with  Aubrey  was 
doomed  to  a  sudden  and  unforeseen  eclipse.  Shortly 
after  midday  a  mounted  messenger  arrived  in  great 
haste,  bearing  a  note  of  apology  from  the  Bishop,  and 
announcing  that  he  had  accelerated  his  plans,  and 
would  reach  Gardenleigh  the  same  day.  Lady  Marland 
put  a  good  face  on  the  emergency,  and  spoke  warmly 
before  the  servants  of  the  great  man's  kindness  in 
treating  his  friends  with  so  much  confidence  and  in- 
formality. Edmund  exclaimed  with  admiration  of  the 
wonderful  energy  of  this  hard- worked  prelate  of  sixty- 
four,  who,  to  save  a  few  hours,  would  ride  through  the 
heat  of  a  June  day,  and  take  his  chance  with  a  house- 
hold unprepared  to  receive  him.  But  Sir  Henry  was 
silent  and  downcast ;  he  could  not  conceal  the  appre- 
hension which,  in  reality,  was  troubling  them  all.  It 
was  no  pleasant  business  upon  which  their  guest  was 
bound;  and  in  such  circumstances  he  who  comes  in 
haste  may  only  too  possibly  be  coming  in  anger. 

It  was  quickly  determined  that  no  formality  should 
be  omitted.  The  Bishop  must  be  met  and  escorted 
home.  Sir  Henry  had  been  out  already,  and  his  wife 


THE  BISHOP  ARRIVES  147 

insisted  that  he  should  spare  himself.     But  he  could 

go  with  Aubrey  as  far  as  the  gate  at  the  eastern  end 

of  the  garden   avenue,  and  wait  there  in  the  shade 

while  Edmund  and  Stephen  rode  to  the  Bath  lodge, 

or  as  much  further  as  time  allowed.     They  set  out  aa 

soon  as  the  horses  were  ready,  and  rode  at  a  smart 

canter ;  but  as  they  passed  the  brook  which  lies  in  the 

deep   hollow  on    the    Gardenleigh   and    Croonington 

boundary  they  saw  the  arch  of  the  gateway  on  the 

hill  beyond  suddenly  darkened,  and  knew  they  were 

too  late.     Two  riders — the  Bishop  and  his  secretary — 

came  down   the  steep  slope  at  a   foot's  pace ;  on   a 

nearer  view  both  were  seen  to  be  hot  and  dusty,  and 

their  appearance  added  to  the  uncomfortable  feeling 

in  Stephen's  mind  that  everything  had   somehow  or 

other  gone  wrong,  and  would  probably  continue  to  do 

so.     He  was,   therefore,   agreeably  surprised  by  the 

manner  in  which  Edmund's  greeting  was  received  and 

his    own  presentation    acknowledged.      The  Bishop's 

whole  address  was  full  of  dignity,  but  he  expressed,  in 

the  strongest  and  simplest  terms,  his  regret  at  the 

trouble  which  he  must  be  causing  by  his  change  of 

plans,  and  his  unworthiness  of  the  honour  which  his 

hosts  had  done  him  in  hastening  out  to  meet  him  at 

his  entrance  to  their  territory.     Stephen  looked  hard 

at  him  as  he  said  the  words,  but  there  was  not  a  trace 

of  insincerity  to  be  detected.     Every  line  of  this  man's 


148  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

face,  every  tone  of  his  voice,  proclaimed  that  he  was 
used  to  command  and  familiar  with  great  affairs ;  but 
he  held  himself  in  with  a  proud  humility,  which  was 
evidently  habitual    and    almost    unconscious,    as    if 
acknowledging  continually  that  he  was  but  a  servant, 
though  his  powers  were  great  and  would  be  put  in 
proof  without  hesitation.     This  attitude   of  continual 
reference  to  a  higher  authority  did  not  in  any  way 
diminish  the  conviction  which  was  immediately  borne 
in  upon  all  who  saw  him,  that  here  was  a  great  man 
surrounded  by  his  inferiors.     His  force,  both  of  mind 
and  body,  was  unmistakable.    His  figure,  though  spare, 
was  firm  and  strong ;  his  head,  which  projected  slightly 
forward    over  a  deep  chest,   was  keen  and   hard   in 
outline,  with  a  pointed  chin  and  straight  nose,  a  broad, 
low  forehead  and  piercing  deep-set  eyes — the  head  of 
a  very  quick  and   resolute   fighter,  Stephen  thought, 
with  the  lean  and  clear  lines  of  the  athlete  rather  than 
the  ascetic. 

The  Bishop  explained  that  his  servants  and  bag- 
gage were  upon  the  road,  but  probably  at  some  dis- 
tance behind :  he  had,  in  fact,  as  afterwards  appeared, 
outrun  them  by  nearly  six  miles  in  twelve.  He  rode 
with  perfect  mastery  a  horse  of  great  power  and 
beauty,  very  different  in  its  paces  from  the  ambling 
ponies  dear  to  most  of  the  ecclesiastics  of  his  time; 
and  he  talked  to  Edmund  without  stopping  as  they 


THE  BISHOP  AEKIVES  149 

cantered   up  the  long   slope  from  the   brook  to  the 
avenue. 

There  at  the  gate  stood  Sir  Henry.  He  had  dis- 
mounted from  his  pony  and  was  leaning  on  Aubrey's 
arm;  in  front  of  him  were  drawn  up  four  servants, 
mounted  and  dressed  in  the  white-and-scarlet  livery 
of  the  Marlands.  As  the  Bishop  passed  between 
them  and  came  to  the  gate,  Sir  Henry  moved  forward 
and  put  out  his  hand  towards  the  stirrup;  but  his 
guest  impetuously  refused  to  allow  even  the  formal 
execution  of  this  act  of  homage.  He  flung  himself 
from  the  saddle  without  assistance,  reining  in  his  horse 
so  suddenly  as  to  force  it  backwards  into  collision 
with  those  of  both  the  servants  on  Sir  Henry's  left 
hand,  and  there  leaving  it  to  be  secured  as  well  as 
might  be.  His  manner  to  his  host  was  considerate 
and  even  gracious,  but  there  was  a  masterful  and 
almost  animal  vigour  about  him  which  made  the  older 
man's  gentle  courtesy  seem  pathetic  and  appealing  by 
contrast.  Stephen  was  already  deeply  impressed  with 
the  superior  power  of  this  dreaded  antagonist;  it  was 
impossible,  he  felt,  to  imagine  him  off  his  guard  for  a 
moment. 

He  had  no  sooner  formed  this  opinion  than  he  was 
forced  to  modify  it.  Sir  Henry  was  drawing  the 
Bishop's  attention  to  the  young  companion  on  whose 
arm  he  was  still  leaning. 


150  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

"  Since  you  are  good  enough  to  think  of  us  at  all," 
he  said,  "  you  must  remember  my  niece  Aubrey — she 
was  Lady  Salisbury's  little  favourite  in  old  days." 

The  Bishop's  face  softened  to  a  tenderness  of  which 
Stephen  could  not  have  believed  it  capable.  He  took 
Aubrey's  hand  in  both  his  own. 

"My  child,"  he  said,  in  the  low  tones  of  intense 
affection,  "it  matters  little  who  else  remembers,  if 
Katharine  does  not  forget." 

He  fixed  his  eyes  upon  her  with  a  look  of  such 
wistful  sadness  that  Stephen  turned  away. 

"Well,  Henry,"  he  heard  him  say,  "shall  we  go 
forward  ? "  and  the  next  moment  he  saw  him  helping 
his  host  to  mount  again. 

Stephen  and  Edmund  galloped  ahead.  "Whom 
was  he  speaking  of  ?  "  asked  Stephen,  when  they  were 
out  of  hearing. 

"  Katharine  was  his  sister,  Lady  Salisbury,"  replied 
Edmund ;  "  she  died  eight  or  nine  years  ago.  The  last 
few  years  of  her  life  she  was  with  the  Bishop  almost 
continually,  and  he  has  never  got  over  her  loss.  Did 
you  see  his  face  change  when  he  mentioned  her 
name  ? " 

"  See  it  ?  "  cried  Stephen ;  "  it  was  like  a  mask 
falling." 

"  No,"  said  Edmund,  "  there  is  no  mask ;  his  feel- 
ings are  all  genuine — you  can  see  that  from  their 


THE  BISHOP  AEEIVES  151 

vehemence — but  his  love  for  his  sister  is  the  most 
genuine  and  most  powerful  of  all.  Happily  for  us,  it 
is  in  our  favour ;  but  it  is  the  feeling  he  most  seldom 
shows." 

"  Still,  he  has  a  heart,  and  it  can  be  touched." 
"By  Aubrey,  perhaps,"   said  Edmund;  "for  the 
rest  of  us  it  is  buried  beneath  all  Eome." 

Stephen  this  time  was  not  so  readily  convinced; 
he  looked  with  sympathy  upon  the  Bishop  when  he 
entered  the  courtyard,  and  thought  that  in  spite  of  his 
abundant  energy  there  was  a  touch  of  weariness  about 
his  face  when  in  repose. 


XXIII 

HOT  though  the  day  had  been,  the  sunset  brought  with 
it  a  chilly  breeze,  and  every  one  was  glad  to  gather 
round  a  wood  fire  which  Lady  Marland  had  ordered 
to  be  lit  in  the  gallery.  This  was  a  large  room  on  the 
first  floor,  running  along  the  whole  side  of  the  house 
and  lighted  by  mullioned  windows  at  the  ends  only. 
But  to-night  the  windows  were  closed,  and  the  sombre 
panelling  was  lit  up  by  the  blaze  of  the  dry  oaken 
logs  piled  one  above  another  between  the  great  iron 
dogs  upon  the  hearth.  Above,  on  the  high  carved 
mantel  that  stretched  upwards  in  the  half-light,  the 
seven  marlions  in  the  Marland  arms  showed  dimly 
against  the  wavy  gules  and  argent  of  the  shield,  and 
along  the  wall  stood  several  suits  of  armour  with  old- 
fashioned  helms,  behind  whose  cross-shaped  sights  the 
flickering  firelight  seemed  now  and  again  to  rekindle 
long  dead  gleams  of  chivalry.  To  the  left  of  the 
chimney  on  a  high-backed  chair  of  red-and-white 
velvet  sat  the  Bishop;  a  table  by  him  was  bright 
with  silver  cups  containing  wine  and  spices.  Opposite 
to  him  sat  Aubrey  on  a  low  seat  down  by  the  hearth ; 

152 


STORIES  BY  THE  FIRE  153 

Stephen  was  next  to  her,  and  the  Marlands  filled  up 
the  circle  between. 

For  some  time  the  talk  was  merely  conventional: 
some  one  said  that  a  fire  was  very  pleasant  even  in 
summer,  to  which  every  one  else  agreed  in  slightly 
varying  forms  of  speech  that  did  nothing  to  advance 
the  conversation.  Stephen  quoted  a  fellow-traveller 
who  had  maintained  that  in  England  there  is  no  even- 
ing in  the  year  on  which  a  fire  is  not  desirable  after 
sunset.  Lady  Marland  disputed  this  opinion,  and 
Aubrey  took  her  side,  reminding  Stephen  that  inferior 
as  the  English  climate  was  to  that  of  Italy,  it  could  at 
times  be  more  oppressively  hot  than  he  at  present 
remembered. 

The  Bishop  alone  remained  majestically  silent, 
though  the  brightness  of  his  deep-set  eyes  showed  that 
his  attention  was  alert.  like  the  great  trout  poised 
motionless  in  the  centre  of  the  pool,  who  leaves  dis- 
dainfully to  his  inferiors  a  hundred  in  succession  of 
the  morsels  that  the  stream  whirls  down,  and  swoops 
at  last  irresistibly  upon  that  which  he  selects  for  him- 
self, the  Bishop  seemed  to  be  watching  the  eddies  of 
the  talk  for  something  that  might  be  worth  his  while 
to  seize  upon.  The  effect  of  this  attitude  upon  his 
hosts  was  fatally  embarrassing.  They  were  still  unable 
to  guess  the  precise  object  of  his  visit,  and,  since  he 
was  apparently  pressed  for  time,  it  seemed  possible  that 


154  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

at  any  moment  some  chance  word  might  give  him  the 
opening  for  which  he  appeared  to  be  looking,  and  bring 
a  crisis  upon  them.  Lady  Marland  made  a  courageous 
effort  to  clear  up  the  situation. 

"  If  this  were  a  winter  fire/'  she  said,  "  we  should 
be  thinking  of  a  story  or  a  song." 

The  Bishop  turned  to  her  with  ready  courtesy ;  no 
hint  could  be  too  sudden  or  too  delicate  for  him. 

"Either,"  he  said,  "would  be  equally  welcome 
after  my  journey,  and  I  am  sure  that  Aubrey  has  both 
in  readiness." 

"  It  is  for  you  to  choose,  my  lord,"  said  Aubrey. 

"  No,  no,"  he  replied ;  "  but  let  it  be  one  of  your  old 
favourites." 

She  glanced  up  quickly  and  met  his  kind  eyes 
with  a  look  of  understanding. 

"  We  used  to  like  Marie  de  France,"  she  said,  "  and 
the  Lay  of  Guingamor  best  of  all." 

The  Bishop  inclined  his  head ;  Sir  Henry  made  a 
whimsical  face  of  relief,  as  if  talking  to  himself. 

Stephen  drew  his  chair  a  little  away  from  Aubrey's 
side,  and  sat  back  with  one  hand  over  his  eyes,  that  he 
might  watch  her  face  in  the  firelight  as  she  told  her  tale. 

"Once  on  a  time  in  Brittany,"  she  began;  and 
before  the  poem  had  reached  the  twentieth  of  its  little 
tinkling  lines,  he  had  ceased  to  hear  it  except  as  music, 
and  was  lost  on  a  shoreless  sea  of  thought. 


STOEIES  BY  THE  FIRE  155 

He  was  recalled  by  a  pause  in  the  even  flow  of  the 
narrative — or  was  it  that  Aubrey's  voice  had  suddenly 
changed,  had  fallen  to  a  deeper  and  more  significant 
tone? 

"  Yet  had  it  chanced,  while  there  he  dreamed, 
Far  otherwise  than  as  he  deemed ; 
For  while  he  numbered  three  swift  nights 
Within  that  palace  of  delights, 
Three  hundred  years  had  passed  on  earth, 
And  in  the  country  of  his  birth 
Dead  was  his  king,  his  own  folk  dead, 
Yea,  all  his  lineage  lapped  in  lead, 
And  all  the  cities  he  had  known 
Kuined  by  time  and  overthrown." 

Stephen  was  wide  awake  now;  the  words  went 
through  him  like  a  wind  sighing  among  pines.  He 
moved  his  hand  from  his  forehead  and  fixed  his  eyes 
openly  upon  Aubrey,  as  if  to  claim  beyond  mistake 
some  acknowledgment  of  the  common  memories  which 
they  two  alone,  of  all  in  the  room,  could  possess.  She 
saw  his  movement,  and  turned  in  his  direction,  but  her 
eyes  in  the  half-light  were  unfathomable,  and  though 
her  voice  was  full  of  meaning,  it  seemed  that  no  one 
else  found  in  it  more  emotion  than  that  naturally 
demanded  by  the  course  of  the  story. 

"  So  on  the  third  day  unafraid 
To  his  dear  love  he  came  and  prayed 
That  homeward  now  he  might  be  sped, 
With  boar  and  hound,  as  she  had  said. 
But  she  made  answer, '  Have  thy  will, 
Yet  vain  is  this  thy  longing  still, 


156  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

For  while  with  us  three  days  have  ehone, 
Three  hundred  years  on  earth  are  gone, 
Thy  king  is  long  in  darkness  thrust, 
And  all  thy  kindred  dust  in  dust. 
Seek  where  thou  wilt  in  that  dim  land, 
There  shall  not  come  beneath  thy  hand 
One  man  so  old  that  he  may  know 
The  names  thou  lovedst  long  ago.'  " 

Again  her  voice  fell  to  the  close  in  a  quiet,  melan- 
choly cadence  that  moved  him  strangely.  He  listened 
on  to  the  end  with  growing  conviction;  the  tale  had 
become  real  to  him.  It  was  himself  that  crossed  that 
river  into  the  old  world  where  he  had  left  his  friends, 
and  where  now  he  found  their  memory  long  forgotten, 
and  their  homes  fallen  to  ruin.  It  was  on  him  that 
death,  long  overdue,  was  creeping  so  swiftly  when  he 
was  once  more  rescued  by  his  lady,  and  once  more  and 
for  the  last  time  recrossed  the  river  into  fairy-land. 
What  then?  What  then?  The  soft  music  ceased, 
and  he  awoke  again ;  whether  to  the  real  world  or  the 
unreal,  who  could  tell  him  now  ? 

"  Thank  you,  Aubrey,"  said  the  Bishop ;  "  you  have 
told  the  story  very  sweetly.  It  is  a  fanciful  thing,  but 
there  is  a  deeper  touch  in  it,  a  reminder  of  something 
real  behind — at  least,  as  you  recited  it." 

Stephen  looked  round  with  astonishment ;  the  echo 
of  his  own  thought  came  from  an  unexpected  quarter, 
but  it  was  none  the  less  an  echo. 

"  It  reminded  me  of  the  story  of  Ogier  the  Dane." 


STORIES  BY  THE  FIRE  157 

He  spoke  to  the  Bishop,  but  kept  watch  on  Aubrey 
at  the  same  time.     She  gave  no  sign  of  recollection. 

"  There  are  many  such  legends,"  said  the  Bishop ; 
"  they  are,  I  imagine,  all  shadows  of  one  true  history." 

Lady  Marland  begged  that  he  would  tell  them  the 
true  story,  and  the  Bishop  began  at  once,  leaning  a 
little  forward  in  his  high-backed  chair,  and  folding  his 
hands  before  him  so  that  the  firelight  flashed  upon  the 
great  single  emerald  in  his  episcopal  ring. 

"  In  the  last  year  of  his  life  that  high-renowned  and 
puissant  Eoman  Prince,  the  Emperor  Trajan,  led  out 
his  chivalry  to  war  against  his  enemies.  And  as  they 
were  riding  out  through  the  Flaminian  gate  the  whole 
plain  before  the  city  seemed  full  of  knights  and  men  of 
arms,  and  overhead  the  golden  eagles  of  the  Empire 
floated  in  the  air.  Then  Trajan  saw  that  a  poor  woman 
was  standing  before  him  in  an  attitude  of  weeping  and 
sorrow;  and  she  made  as  though  she  saw  neither  the 
eagles  nor  the  host,  but  only  the  Emperor,  and  she  laid 
her  hand  upon  his  bridle,  and  cried  to  him  by  his  name. 
Then  he  asked  her,  '  Woman,  what  is  thy  complaint  to 
me  ?  for  I  am  in  haste.'  Then  she  answered, '  My  lord, 
I  am  a  widow ;  avenge  me  for  my  son's  death,  for  it  is 
breaking  my  heart.'  And  he  said  to  her,  'Wait  now 
till  I  return,  and  I  will  avenge  thee.'  But  she  cried 
out  as  one  whom  grief  makes  impatient,  '  0  my  lord, 
but  what  if  thou  never  dost  return  ? '  Then  he 


158  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

answered  her, '  If  I  should  never  come  again,  then  he 
that  fills  my  place  will  also  fulfil  thy  desire.'  But  she 
cried  again,  being  carried  by  her  grief  beyond  respect, 
'  What  is  it  to  thee  if  another  does  his  duty  when  thou 
hast  left  thine  own  undone  ? ' 

"  Then  the  Emperor  fell  into  a  study,  and  afterwards 
he  changed  his  counsel  suddenly,  and  said  to  the  woman, 
1  Take  courage ;  since  this  is  my  duty  I  must  perform  it 
before  I  go.  Justice  requires  it  of  me,  and  pity  for  thee 
holds  me  back.'  So  he  returned  to  the  city  with  all  his 
host,  and  he  searched  for  the  murderer  who  had  broken 
that  widow's  heart,  and  found  him ;  and  it  was  his  own 
son.  Then  he  sent  and  offered  his  son  to  the  widow 
for  death  or  life ;  and  she  accepted  him  to  be  a  son  to 
her  in  place  of  her  own  who  was  dead. 

"  Now  it  happened  within  the  year,  that  Trajan  died, 
and  because  he  had  not  known  the  faith  his  place  was 
found  among  the  damned.  But  after  certain  years  the 
blessed  Saint  Gregory,  seeing  that  many  by  the  know- 
ledge of  the  faith  came  into  bliss  in  despite  of  their 
insufficiency  and  lack  of  virtue,  and  remembering  the 
eminent  justice  of  that  Eoman  Prince,  was  moved  to 
intercede  with  God  for  him ;  and  he  prevailed  against 
the  Devil,  and  Trajan  was  delivered  out  of  Hell,  and 
received  his  mortal  body  again,  and  came  into  the  world 
in  all  things  as  a  man,  to  save  or  lose  his  soul.  And 
while  he  lived,  he  lived  without  joy,  in  a  grievous  exile ; 


STOKIES  BY  THE  FIRE  159 

for  though  he  had  escaped  from  a  place  of  torment,  yet 
he  passed  his  days  in  a  pilgrimage  without  friends  or 
kindred,  ever  lamenting  those  who  had  long  since 
perished. 

"  Nevertheless,  it  is  to  be  remembered  that  in  that 
second  brief  earthly  life  it  was  given  to  him  to  embrace 
the  faith  of  Christ,  and  to  receive  baptism,  and  in  the 
end  by  short  sorrow  to  merit  the  eternal  Paradise." 

The  Bishop  ended  on  a  more  triumphant  note  than 
Aubrey,  but  he  too  had  acquitted  himself  well;  his 
voice  and  manner,  Stephen  thought,  were  perfect,  and 
touched  with  a  sincerity  that  no  one  could  help  feeling. 
Aubrey  herself  exclaimed,  with  bright  eyes — 

"  0  my  lord,  if  I  had  known !  How  could  you  let 
me  shame  poor  Marie  before  so  great  a  poet  as  Dante? " 

The  Bishop  frowned.  "  I  know  nothing  of  Dante," 
he  said.  "  The  story  of  Trajan  was  told  to  me  in  my 
youth  at  Avignon ;  I  brought  it  over  with  others,  and 
intended  it  to  go  into  my  new  Lectionary  at  Exeter. 
If  Dante  tells  it  too,  that  may  be  a  reason  for  omit- 
ting it." 

He  spoke  with  a  flash  of  quick  feeling,  and  Stephen 
rushed  in  to  support  Aubrey. 

"It  struck  me  too,"  he  said,  "that  many  of  the 
phrases  you  used  came  from  Dante's  version;  and 
surely  what  he  says  of  Trajan's  story  in  the  Paradiso 
is  very  beautiful — 


160  THE  OLD  COUNTEY 

" '  Then  did  he  know  at  last  how  dear  it  costs 
Not  to  have  followed  Christ ;  for  he  had  tasted 
Both  of  that  sweet  life  and  its  contrary.' " 

The  Bishop's  colour  deepened.  "You  are  right," 
he  replied  fiercely ;  "  that  is  beautifully  said.  Honey 
is  honey  even  in  the  blasted  tree." 

There  was  an  awkward  silence,  broken  by  Sir  Henry 
with  a  half-humorous,  half-deprecatory  air. 

"  It  is  a  strange  thought,"  he  said,  "  to  go  back  to 
the  world  again;  I  don't  know  that  we  should  all 
welcome  the  chance."  He  arched  his  eyebrows  as  if 
he  saw  himself  making  a  still  worse  business  of  a 
second  venture. 

"  My  dear  father,"  said  Edmund,  with  an  accent  of 
gentle  response  to  Sir  Henry's  mood,  "putting  aside 
your  own  chances  of  failure,  don't  you  think  it  would 
be  interesting  to  take  a  look  at  the  world  five  hundred 
years  from  now,  and  see  how  it  will  be  getting  on  ?  " 

The  Bishop  had  quite  recovered  his  serenity,  and 
surprised  Stephen  for  the  second  time  by  expressing  his 
complete  agreement  with  Edmund's  view. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Sir  Henry;  "I  don't  feel 
sure.  I  can  imagine  myself  grumbling  even  at  a 
better  world  than  this." 

"  Oh,"  said  his  wife,  laying  her  hand  upon  his  knee, 
"you  are  a  very  gloomy  old  gentleman  this  evening. 
You  forget  that  many  of  your  favourite  grievances  will 


STORIES  BY  THE  FIRE  161 

have  disappeared  long  before  five  hundred  years  are 
over." 

"  Will  they  ? "  he  said.  "  Very  well,  my  dear ;  and 
what  of  yours  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  know  you  think  mine  less  serious,"  she 
replied,  with  a  droll  toss  of  her  birdlike  head.  "  But 
I  am  quite  sure  of  one  thing:  before  many  years 
have  passed,  people  will  have  got  tired  of  these  fast 
young  ladies  of  the  present  day,  who  dress  more 
like  men  than  women,  and  waste  all  their  time  and 
money  in  going  about  from  one  tournament  to 
another." 

The  rest  laughed  at  this.  Sir  Henry  shook  his 
head  solemnly. 

"  You  are  quite  right  there,"  he  said ;  "  there  will 
soon  be  no  money  left  in  the  country  for  such  games, 
and  in  five  hundred  years — why,  we  shall  be  lucky  if 
there  is  food  for  us  all  by  then." 

"Why  so?"  asked  Stephen,  for  whom  this  fresh 
turn  of  the  conversation  had  an  interest  that  could  be 
shared  by  no  one  else. 

"Why,"  said  Sir  Henry,  "ever  since  the  Black 
Death  we  have  not  known  where  to  turn  for  labour. 
The  value  of  land  has  fallen  ruinously.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  more  there  are  to  work,  the  more  there  will 
be  to  feed.  If  once  the  population  takes  to  growing 
again,  it  will  not  be  long  before  the  land  will  fail  us. 

H 


162  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

In  five  hundred  years  there  will  be  neither  bread  nor 
standing-room  in  England." 

Stephen  hesitated ;  the  natural  answer  for  him  to 
make  was  an  impossible  one.  How  could  a  man 
reasonably  claim  to  state  as  a  fact  the  condition  of  his 
country  centuries  hence  ? 

"I  can  imagine,"  he  said,  "that  Englishmen  may 
find  the  island  too  small  for  them  some  day ;  but  surely 
it  is  possible  for  the  wealth  of  a  country  to  increase  as 
fast  as  its  population  ?  " 

"  Possible,"  replied  Edmund ;  "  but  only  if  you  are 
always  at  war  and  always  victorious.  That  may 
happen.  As  a  nation  we  seem  to  be  more  and  more 
unable  to  keep  our  hands  from  war  and  plunder." 

"  No,  no,"  said  the  Bishop,  earnestly,  "  it  will  not  be  in 
that  way ;  we  have  had  enough  killing  and  robbing.  By 
the  time  you  are  thinking  of  there  will  be  no  more  war." 

"  I  take  it,"  said  Sir  Henry,  "  that  by  that  time 
war  will  have  done  its  work.  I  grant  that  we  soldiers 
are  a  bad  lot ;  but  you  won't  take  it  amiss  when  we 
have  turned  England  into  the  Empire,  and  when  the 
Empire  is  another  name  for  the  whole  of  Europe." 

Stephen  shook  his  head. 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  said  Sir  Henry.  "  You 
are  not  a  Churchman,  Stephen." 

"  Henry,"  said  his  wife,  severely,  "  you  are  not 
witty,  you  are  wilful." 


STOEIE8  BY  THE  FIRE  163 

Stephen  escaped  from  the  necessity  of  explaining 
himself,  for  Aubrey  came  to  the  rescue  of  her  uncle. 

"  I  appeal  to  my  lord,"  she  said  ;  "  the  Church  does 
not  condemn  all  wars.  There  is  always  lawful  war 
against  infidels.  My  view  of  the  future  is  that  in  five 
hundred  years  the  whole  world  will  have  been  brought 
to  Christianity  by  force  of  arms.  It  will  take  many 
glorious  victories  to  do  that,  and  it  is  a  crusade  we 
shall  never  give  up  until  we  have  achieved  it." 

Stephen  looked  at  her  in  bewilderment.  Either  she 
was  playing  a  part — and  of  that  he  saw  no  sign — or 
she  had  no  memory  whatever  of  the  world  she  was 
forecasting,  the  world  from  which  she,  like  himself,  had 
so  lately  come. 

She  saw  his  astonishment,  and  seemed  to  take  it 
for  dissent. 

"Well,"  she  continued,  "perhaps  that  may  take 
longer  than  I  think;  but  do  not  tell  me  that  I  am 
wrong  about  the  growth  of  the  Church  Militant.  Surely 
we  can  see  that  beginning  even  now.  As  men  and 
nations  rise,  they  must  more  and  more  leave  trade  for 
chivalry." 

"What  do  you  say  to  that,  Stephen?"  asked  Sir 
Henry. 

"  If  you  ask  me,"  he  replied,  "  I  foresee  that  how- 
ever much  fighting  there  may  be  in  the  future,  there 
will  be  still  more  trading." 


164  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

"  I  won't  believe  that,"  said  Aubrey.  "  We  can't 
be  a  nation  of  knights  and  a  nation  of  shopkeepers  at 
the  same  time." 

"So  Napoleon  thought,"  cried  Stephen;  "  but  he 
found  out  his  mistake." 

He  had  hardly  said  the  words  when  he  recognized 
that  they  were  absurd;  but  his  companions  did  not 
appear  to  find  them  so.  It  seemed  rather  that  they 
had  not  heard  what  he  said,  for  no  one  made  any 
comment,  and  the  Bishop's  next  remark  was  in  reply  to 
Aubrey. 

"  The  school  of  chivalry,"  he  said,  "  is  a  fine  one ; 
but  it  can  never  be  of  more  than  secondary  importance. 
The  secular  power  must  always  be  subordinate  to  the 
spiritual,  to  which  alone  authority  belongs.  Whatever 
may  be  in  the  future  the  relative  positions  of  the 
military  and  commercial  classes,  or  of  any  others,  there 
can  be  no  doubt  that  the  supreme  place  in  the  state 
must  be  allotted  to  the  ecclesiastical  hierarchy ;  and  if 
we  could  at  this  moment  look  forward  over  so  con- 
siderable a  time  as  five  centuries,  we  should  certainly 
see  an  empire  which,  whether  entirely  English  or  not, 
will  be  subject  in  every  department  of  life  to  the  Holy 
Father  and  those  to  whom  he  may  delegate  his  divine 
authority.  Here,  among  a  race  of  self-willed  and 
almost  heathen  perversity,  we  are  far  from  that  heavenly 
reign;  but  it  is  coming,  and  to  see  it  with  my  eyes 


STORIES  BY  THE  FIRE  105 

I  would  come  back  ten  times  like  Trajan,  though  I  had 
to  come  not  from  torment,  but  from  Paradise  itself." 

The  fire  of  battle  rushed  through  every  vein  in 
Stephen's  body  ;  but  he  knew  that  he  could  do  nothing 
but  harm  by  taking  up  such  a  challenge.  In  the 
silence  which  followed  the  Bishop's  words  he  regained 
his  self-control,  and  by  a  natural  reaction  passed  to  an 
opposite  state  of  feeling,  He  looked  at  the  Bishop  as 
he  sat  there  in  the  dying  and  uncertain  light ;  the 
majestic  figure  with  the  deep  eyes  and  finely  chiselled 
head  seemed  to  vanish  and  reappear  and  vanish  again 
in  the  wavering  shadows  and  brief  gleams  of  the  falling 
fire,  and  strong  and  determined  though  it  was  in  every 
line,  the  strength  and  determination  were  to  Stephen's 
fancy  almost  pathetically  impotent,  the  sport  of  mys- 
terious forces  over  which  they  could  have  no  power, 
but  upon  which  they  depended  for  their  fitful  intervals 
of  real  existence. 

A  moment  later  the  last  log  broke  and  fell  with  a 
soft  plash  into  the  white  dust  beneath ;  only  a  dull  red 
glow  remained  upon  the  hearth;  but  as  the  company 
rose  to  depart,  a  tiny  gleam  sprang  again  from  some 
hidden  ember,  and  lit  up  the  Bishop  as  he  led  the  way 
towards  the  door. 


XXIV 

ON  the  following  morning  the  whole  household  attended 
an  early  service  in  Gardenleigh  Church.  Stephen,  as 
he  followed  the  Marlands  out  of  the  bright  sunlight 
into  the  shadow  of  the  porch,  felt  a  sudden  sense  of 
oneness  with  them  all,  which  came  as  a  relief  after  the 
embarrassments  of  their  last  evening's  conversation. 
Then  he  had  been  acutely  conscious  of  the  inevitable 
differences  between  their  point  of  view  and  his;  he 
could  not  share  their  hopes,  nor  they  his  knowledge. 
He  had  encountered  also  now  and  again,  since  he 
entered  this  life  of  theirs,  small  novelties  of  detail, 
slight  enough  in  themselves,  and  of  no  importance  in 
comparison  with  the  real  interests  in  which  he  was 
involved.  These  had  passed  almost  unnoticed  as  they 
came  before  him  one  by  one ;  they  now  recurred  to  his 
mind  in  a  single  moment,  but  only  to  set  off  more 
clearly  the  unchanging  character  of  the  place  in  which 
he  found  himself  once  more  summoned  to  prayer,  and 
to  disappear  finally  beneath  an  overwhelming  sense  of 
the  unity  and  timelessness  of  all  devotion.  As  he 
entered  the  plain  little  nave  and  saw  the  chantry  arch, 

1G6 


MISSA  COBAM  EPISCOPO  167 

the  font  full  of  wild  flowers,  the  kneeling  figures  of 
those  who  had  already  taken  their  places,  he  was  moved 
by  a  profound  and  welcome  feeling  of  familiarity. 
Everything  here  was  as  it  used  to  be,  and  as  it  would 
continue,  he  knew,  to  be  after  many  centuries ;  here 
was  order,  peace,  and  the  austere  beauty  of  carved 
stone.  The  service  was  in  Latin ;  but  to  one  who  had 
lately  come  from  Italy  there  was  nothing  unusual  in 
this ;  and  even  if  he  had  never  heard  it  before,  he  could 
hardly  have  failed  to  hear  it  aright,  for  its  grave  and 
sonorous  language  sounded  like  the  native  tongue  of  all 
religion,  and  seemed  to  need  but  little  the  interpretation 
of  the  intellect. 

Not  less  permanent  were  the  elements  of  human 
character  which  he  saw  displayed  around  him — devout- 
ness  and  indifference,  fervour  and  lassitude,  extremes 
of  reverence  and  conventionality,  in  their  natural  and 
perpetual  contrast;  and  when  his  eyes  turned  to  the 
chancel  he  recognized  in  the  two  figures  upon  the 
altar-steps  two  of  the  fundamental  and  enduring  types 
between  which  are  divided  the  priests  of  all  time  and 
every  old  religion.  The  Bishop  was  dominion  per- 
sonified; his  whole  bearing  was  a  combination  of 
dignity  and  power.  The  concentration  of  his  look 
never  relaxed  for  a  moment ;  but  the  impression  given 
was  of  a  force  as  completely  controlled  as  it  was 
determined  and  untiring — a  force  whose  movements 


168  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

were  harmonious  because  irresistible.  This  was  the 
personal  aspect  of  the  man.  On  this  side  he  was 
visibly  linked  to  earth  by  the  strong  passions  of 
earth — passions  which  had  been  diverted,  concen- 
trated, purified,  but  never  subdued.  To  this  side,  too, 
belonged  his  individual  humility.  But  he  had  also 
an  outer  and  even  more  striking  aspect:  he  was 
clothed  with  majesty  as  with  a  garment.  The  prestige 
of  birth,  of  wealth,  of  great  ability  was  a  part,  but 
a  small  part,  of  the  conscious  splendour  in  which  he 
moved.  What  gave  the  imperious  certainty  to  his 
actions  and  the  sound  of  finality  to  his  speech  was 
the  ever-present  consciousness  of  the  authority  which 
he  wielded  as  a  Prince  of  the  Imperium  Divinum — 
that  Empire  in  which  Kings  are  but  as  servants,  States 
as  provinces,  and  nations  and  their  armies  as  unruly 
children. 

To  all  this  Edmund  offered  a  complete  contrast; 
he  was  as  lacking  in  physical  strength  as  in  ecclesi- 
astical greatness.  He  had,  indeed,  both  dignity  and 
power,  but  it  was  the  dignity  of  submission,  the  power 
of  an  infinite  desire.  His  frail  figure  and  spiritual 
face  had  something  about  them  which  touched  a  finer 
sense,  and  his  voice  could  never  fail  to  inspire  both 
peace  and  confidence;  but  Stephen  felt  with  a  pang 
that  in  this  world  of  ours  it  was  not  to  him  but  to 
the  other  that  all  the  victories  would  fall.  Yet 


MISSA  COR  AM  EPISCOPO  169 

again  he  saw  that  here,  too,  was  an  enduring  force; 
and  he  reflected  that  in  a  contest  which  is  im- 
mortal there  are  in  truth  no  victories,  nor  is  any  real 
defeat  possible  of  that  which  is  never  destined  for 
death. 


XXV 

THE  Bishop  walked  back  to  the  house  with  Sir  Henry, 
and  Edmund  followed  with  his  mother.  All  four 
seemed  preoccupied,  and  Stephen  and  Aubrey  found 
themselves  for  the  moment  forgotten.  They  came 
slowly  and  silently  across  the  bridge  together,  but 
when  they  reached  the  path  an  energetic  impulse 
seized  them  both,  and  they  stopped  suddenly  and 
looked  at  each  other. 

"  It  is  too  soon  for  breakfast,"  Aubrey  said.  "  Where 
shall  we  go  ? " 

"Anywhere  out-of-doors,"  he  replied,  drawing  a 
deep  breath  of  the  bright  morning  air. 

They  turned  away  from  the  house,  and  started  at 
a  quick  pace  up  the  opposite  hill  towards  the  garden. 
Once  in  the  avenue,  however,  Aubrey  turned  along  it 
to  the  right,  and  led  the  way  to  the  opening  on  the 
southward  edge,  where  less  than  two  days  before 
Stephen  had  stood,  looking  down  from  the  new  house 
to  the  old.  As  he  now  stood  there  once  more,  with 
the  familiar  scene  outspread  before  him,  from  the 
distant  hills  beyond  the  lake  to  the  green  bower 
under  the  down,  where  the  church  lay  nested  upon 

170 


STEPHEN  IN  EXILE  171 

still  waters,  the  thought  came  to  hun  that  this  was 
the  place  and  time  to  put  Aubrey's  memory  to  a 
final  test.  If  she  were  not  playing  with  him,  if  she 
had,  indeed,  no  recollection  of  the  old  life  out  of  which 
she  had  seemed  to  draw  him  into  this,  then  it  had 
been  but  a  phantom  that  he  followed,  and,  except  in 
beauty  and  in  name,  she  had  nothing  of  the  Aubrey 
he  had  loved. 

"This  is  my  favourite  seat,"  she  said,  taking  her 
place  upon  the  low  stone  wall  which  bounded  the 
southern  side  of  the  garden  enclosure. 

"Yes,  I  remember,"  he  said  quietly,  but  with  a 
beating  pulse. 

"  Did  I  tell  you  that  before  ? "  she  asked,  laughing. 
"  I  am  growing  old  and  tedious." 

"No,"  he  replied;  "but  I  remember  seeing  you 
here." 

She  looked  at  him  as  if  uncertain  of  his  meaning, 
but  asked  no  further  question. 

"I  imagine,"  he  began  again,  "that  this  is  the 
place  you  were  thinking  of  when  you  said  you  would 
rather  live  up  here  than  down  there  ? " 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  pointing  to  a  gap  in  the  avenue 
behind  her,  which  left  a  clear  plateau  of  level  turf 
between  the  lines  of  great  trees  to  east  and  west  of 
it.  "That  is  where  the  Gardenleigh  of  the  future  is 
to  stand.  It  will  look  to  the  south — I  love  the  south 


172  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

— and  here  in  front  it  will  have  a  terrace,  with  a 
stone  balustrade  like  the  Italian  ones,  and  a  round 
bay  in  the  centre  with  a  sundial,  just  where  we  are 
now." 

"  I  can  see  it  all,"  he  said,  "  and  so  I  am  sure 
can  you." 

"Oh,"  she  replied,  smiling,  "I  have  seen  it  so 
often." 

"  So  have  I,"  he  said,  looking  at  her. 

Again  she  was  silent,  and  this  time  he  thought 
she  seemed  to  understand  that  he  was  not  speaking 
at  random ;  but  the  move  was  still  with  him. 

"  You  will  leave  the  avenue  standing  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Of  course,"  she  replied.  "  It  will  be  a  new  idea 
to  have  the  house  in  the  middle  of  an  avenue  instead 
of  at  the  end  of  one." 

"And,  as  I  see  it,"  he  continued,  "you  will  not 
use  the  avenue  for  a  road  at  all,  but  enclose  it  in  the 
garden  ? " 

She  nodded,  and  then  exclaimed  suddenly,  "But 
how  did  you  come  to  think  of  that?  It  only  came 
into  my  mind  two  days  ago,  and  I  have  never  said  a 
word  of  it  to  any  one." 

"  That  is  how  I  see  the  place,"  he  said.  "  And 
there  at  the  side  of  your  house  we  shall  sit  in  the 
heat  of  the  day  under  the  avenue,  and  talk  of  Ogier 
the  Dane." 


STEPHEN  IN  EXILE  173 

"Ogier  the  Dane?"  she  repeated  half  to  herself. 
"  Where  have  I  heard  that  name  ? " 

He  trembled  with  hope.  She  seemed  upon  the 
verge  of  memory ;  but  in  a  moment  her  brow  cleared. 

"  It  was  you,"  she  said,  "  who  spoke  of  Ogier  last 
night.  I  meant  to  ask  you  some  time  what  his  story 
was." 

A  sudden  idea  rushed  into  his  mind.  "  Come  with 
me,"  he  said  eagerly,  starting  towards  the  western  edge 
of  the  gap  where  they  had  been  picturing  the  house. 

Aubrey  left  her  seat  upon  the  wall  and  followed 
him.  At  the  entrance  to  the  high  green  arcade  he 
turned  to  face  her. 

"Here,"  he  said  impetuously;  "it  will  be  here. 
Since  you  have  seen  so  much,  is  it  possible  that  you 
cannot  see  more  ?  Can  your  dream  give  place  and 
reality  to  a  house,  and  show  you  nothing  of  those  who 
are  to  live  in  it?  Do  you  not  know  that  where  we 
stand  at  this  moment  there  will  one  day  be  another 
Aubrey  and  another  Stephen,  telling  old  tales  upon  a 
sunny  morning  in  June? — Ogier  or  Guingamor  or 
Trajan — it  is  all  one — a  story  without  time,  a  story  of 
the  land  where  days  are  centuries  and  centuries  are 
indistinguishable  ?  That  Stephen  of  the  future — what 
if  he,  too,  should  learn  the  magic  and  leave  his  genera- 
tion, as  others  leave  their  country,  to  go  into  a  land 
of  exile  five  hundred  years  away  ?  Have  you  no 


174  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

feeling  for  that  exile  ?  If  he  stood  before  you  now,  lost 
to  all  his  world,  and  alone  in  yours,  would  you  deny 
him  a  word  of  sympathy  and  understanding,  a  sign 
that  you  knew  him  from  the  rest,  from  the  unsuspect- 
ing native-born  inhabitants  of  your  own  century  ?  " 

He  spoke  almost  vehemently,  but  Aubrey  looked 
at  him  with  clear,  unconscious  eyes. 

"It  is  a  new  story,"  she  said  warmly,  "and  a 
thrilling  one.  I  have  often  thought  that  there  is  just 
that  difference  between  people.  Some  have  a  kind  of 
reality  in  themselves,  and  might  belong  to  one  age  as 
well  as  to  another.  Some  are  like  reflections :  they 
seem  only  to  exist  because  certain  other  things  and 
persons  exist.  You,"  she  continued,  with  a  delicate 
direct  sincerity  in  her  voice,  "are  one  of  the  real 
people  to  me.  I  think  in  any  century  you  would 
always  be  living ;  and  I  am  not  unsympathetic.  I  do 
recognize  that  you  have  come  from  a  different  world 
into  this  little  old-fashioned  corner  of  ours — as  I  have, 
in  a  way,  myself.  So  there  are  all  your  questions 
answered." 

She  smiled  and  held  out  her  hand  to  him,  turning 
at  the  same  time  to  move  in  the  direction  of  home. 
He  responded  mechanically,  but  he  scarcely  felt  the 
pressure  of  her  fingers  in  his  growing  apprehension. 

"The  tale  I  am  telling  now,"  he  said,  "is  truer 
than  you  think.  I  am  speaking  of  a  Stephen  you 


STEPHEN  IN  EXILE  175 

seem  to  have  forgotten,  a  Stephen  who  has  literally 
come  from  a  different  world,  filled  with  recollections  of 
you.  Does  this  seem  mere  folly,  or  do  you  remember 
anything  of  the  Aubrey  for  whose  sake  he  has  come — 
come  by  this  very  path,  from  the  new  house  to  the 
old?" 

She  coloured  a  little,  but  looked  at  him  with  frank, 
happy  eyes. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  she  said,  "  you  think  me  wilfully 
forgetful ;  this  is  not  the  first  time  you  have  expected 
my  memory  to  match  yours.  I  wish  it  could.  I  feel 
that  we  are  old  friends,  but  I  remember  very  little  of 
those  days,  except" — she  continued  with  a  flash  of 
mischievous  daring — "  except  that  I  had  a  childish 
admiration  for  a  boy  I  used  to  meet  here." 

For  one  brief  instant  his  heart  leaped,  then  fell 
almost  to  despair.  This  was  a  kind  and  beautiful  lady, 
but  she  was  not  his  Aubrey,  for  he  was  not  the  Stephen 
she  remembered.  He  had  spoken  to  her  of  yesterday ; 
she  answered  him  with  recollections  of  a  childhood 
which  had  no  counterpart  in  his  own  memory.  As 
they  re-entered  the  cold,  deep  shadow  of  the  courtyard 
the  house  frowned  upon  him  like  a  prison ;  he  felt  that 
he  had  indeed  come  far,  and  lost  his  way. 


XXYI 

THE  Bishop  was  in  haste  to  continue  his  journey. 
To-day  was  even  cooler  than  yesterday,  he  declared, 
and  he  was  determined  to  leave  Gardenleigh  an  hour 
before  noon.  There  was,  therefore,  no  longer  any 
possibility  of  evading  or  postponing  the  dreaded 
moment  of  crisis.  After  breakfast  the  orders  for 
departure  were  sent  out  to  the  stables,  and  Edmund,  as 
he  sat  with  the  two  ladies  and  Stephen  in  front  of  the 
house,  was  nervously  expecting  from  one  moment  to 
another  to  be  summoned  to  the  solar,  where  the  Bishop 
was  closeted  with  Sir  Henry. 

At  last  the  garden  door  opened,  but  to  every  one's 
surprise  it  was  no  messenger,  but  the  Bishop  himself  who 
came  out,  and  he  came  alone.  He  was  more  dignified 
and  masterful  in  appearance  than  ever,  but  his  face 
showed  nothing  like  a  frown,  and  his  voice  was 
measured  and  courteous. 

"  There  is  still  the  matter  of  business  upon  which 
I  came,"  he  said  to  Edmund.  "  I  have  just  mentioned 
it  to  your  father,  but  I  am  loth  to  trouble  him  with  it 
further  than  is  absolutely  necessary.  If  you  could 

176 


THE  BISHOP'S  MOVE  177 

spare  half  an  hour  to  walk  with  me,  I  think  I  could 
soon  put  you  in  possession  of  my  views." 

Edmund  flushed  deeply,  and  exchanged  a  quick 
look  of  understanding  with  his  mother.  Gratitude 
rang  in  his  voice  as  he  replied  that  he  was  ready  then 
and  there. 

"  Perhaps  your  friend  will  give  his  counsel  too," 
added  the  Bishop;  and  Stephen  quickly  assented — so 
quickly  that  he  saw  too  late  the  cloud  that  came  over 
Edmund's  face.  He  realized,  however,  that  it  was 
caused  by  a  doubt  of  his  own  discretion,  and  deter- 
mined to  keep  a  tight  rein  on  his  feelings;  the  more 
so  as  he  did  not  altogether  share  Edmund's  relief  at 
the  unexpected  method  adopted  by  the  Bishop. 

Lady  Marland  and  Aubrey  looked  on  silently  and 
with  some  agitation  while  the  three  men  left  the  house 
together  and  moved  away  along  the  lake-side.  But  the 
Bishop,  so  long  as  they  were  within  earshot,  continued 
to  talk  with  Edmund  in  a  cheerful,  unstrained  tone 
that  was  reassuring  to  hear ;  and  Stephen,  who  was 
walking  a  step  behind  the  others,  turned  back  and 
waved  his  hand  encouragingly.  Aubrey  waved  her 
right  hand  in  reply ;  her  left  was  thrown  round  Lady 
Marland's  shoulder  with  a  charming  gesture  of  pro- 
tection. Whatever  she  was,  she  was  no  phantom ;  and 
Stephen  felt  that  her  friendship  with  him,  even  if  it 
were  based  on  a  double  misunderstanding,  was  at  any 

N 


178  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

rate  justified  by  a  real  sympathy.  He  was  thinking 
more  of  this  than  of  the  affair  in  hand,  as  he  followed 
his  companions  along  the  well-remembered  path;  but 
when  they  halted  halfway  down  the  lake  by  a  fallen 
tree-trunk  which  lay  by  the  water-side,  he  was  sharply 
recalled  to  a  more  appropriate  train  of  ideas.  This  was 
the  place  where  he  had  once  sat  with  another  friend 
and  discussed  the  position  and  claims  of  the  Church. 
It  seemed  fitting  and  inevitable,  as  even  the  strangest 
incidents  in  a  dream  appear  to  the  sleeper  fitting  and 
inevitable,  that  the  Bishop  should  pause  just  here,  and 
stand  looking  out  over  the  sunlit  water  and  the  broad 
expanse  of  water-lilies. 

"  What  I  like  so  much  about  Gardenleigh,"  he  was 
saying  pleasantly  to  Edmund,  "  is  the  orderliness  of  it ; 
such  as  it  is,  it  is  always  at  its  best,  for  everywhere  it 
bears  the  mark  of  obedient  and  industrious  care." 

He  took  his  seat  as  he  spoke  upon  the  fallen  trunk ; 
Edmund  remained  standing  before  him ;  Stephen  leaned 
against  a  tree  at  the  Bishop's  right  hand,  a  position 
from  which  he  could  see  the  faces  of  both,  and  appear 
to  make  one  of  the  party  while  holding  aloof  from  the 
conversation  as  far  as  possible. 

"  My  father,"  said  Edmund,  in  reply  to  the  Bishop's 
comment,  "  has  the  soldier's  love  of  discipline.  I  often 
wonder  he  ever  allowed  me  to  choose  a  profession 
different  from  his  own." 


THE  BISHOP'S  MOVE  179 

"  I  have  no  doubt,"  said  the  Bishop,  "  that  he  was 
rightly  guided  there.  He  saw  that  in  the  matter  of 
discipline  there  is  no  difference  between  the  two. 
Loyal  submission  to  authority  is  the  first  principle  of 
both;  of  the  Church,  indeed,  even  more  than  of  the 
army." 

Edmund  was  silent,  and  Stephen  realized  with 
dismay  that  the  line  of  attack  was  one  which  would 
begin  by  putting  his  friend  out  of  action,  and  end  by 
drawing  himself  almost  inevitably  into  the  conflict. 

"  It  is  in  the  name  of  discipline  that  I  have  come 
here,"  the  Bishop  continued  earnestly,  "and  I  do  not 
think  I  shall  have  come  in  vain,  if  you  are  the  true  son 
of  your  father.  It  is  to  you  that  I  make  my  appeal 
rather  than  to  him,  because  the  sacrifice  which  I  am 
about  to  ask  of  you  all  is  a  small  matter  to  the  rest, 
and  a  heavy  one  to  you.  The  friendship  between  your 
family  and  the  Tremurs  is  of  old  standing,  but  it  is 
no  longer  so  intimate  as  it  once  was ;  since  the  death 
of  his  parents  Ealph  is  the  chief  representative  of  it 
on  the  one  side,  and  yourself  on  the  other." 

"  My  mother  has  always  been  very  fond  of  Ealph," 
said  Edmund. 

"  Your  mother  is  a  beautiful  and  tender  character, 
but  her  tenderness  is  one  with  her  religion.  If  any 
earthly  love  of  hers  were  put  in  conflict  with  her  love 
for  the  Church,  she  would  not  hesitate.  I  have  not 


180  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

wished  to  trouble  her  peace  of  mind  by  recounting  the 
terrible  words  and  deeds  of  one  to  whom  she  has  shown 
so  much  kindness ;  she  will  believe  you  if  you  assure 
her  that  they  are  indefensible,  and  not  fit  to  be  named 
among  Christians." 

At  these  words  Edmund's  pale  face  flushed  sud- 
denly, but  he  kept  his  self-control,  and  his  voice,  though 
it  trembled  a  little,  retained  its  low,  sad  tone. 

"  My  lord,"  he  said,  "  I  could  not  ask  my  mother 
to  believe  on  my  authority  that  which  is  not  within 
my  own  knowledge.  The  facts  will  be  not  less  painful 
to  me  than  to  her ;  but  surely  I  must  know  them  if  I 
am  to  guarantee  them." 

"  The  authority,"  replied  the  Bishop,  "  is  not  yours, 
but  mine.  I  have  already  told  you  that  what  I  hear  of 
Ealph  is  not  fit  to  be  repeated." 

Stephen  here  made  an  involuntary  movement,  as  if 
to  come  into  the  discussion,  but  a  glance  from  Edmund 
checked  him.  The  Bishop,  however,  had  seen  what 
passed ;  he  had  from  the  first,  for  reasons  of  his  own, 
intended  Stephen  to  take  part  in  the  conversation,  and 
he  now  addressed  himself  to  both  the  younger  men  at 
once,  taking  as  he  did  so  a  more  genial  tone  and  manner. 
"  Come,"  he  said,  "  let  us  reason  together,  and  think 
no  more  of  facts  or  persons  for  the  present ;  right  and 
wrong  are  independent  of  our  affections.  The  question 
I  put  before  you  is  one  of  duty.  It  is  not  one  which 


THE  BISHOP'S  MOVE  181 

arises  now  for  the  first  or  the  last  time ;  it  is  involved 
in  the  very  fabric  of  human  society.  It  is  the  question 
of  the  obedience  due  from  the  individual  to  the  Order 
into  whose  hands  has  been  committed  the  whole 
direction  of  that  society.  I  ask  you  to  forget  upon 
whom  this  claim  is  now  made,  and  by  whose  unworthy 
mouth  it  is  now  put  forward ;  think  of  it  simply  as  the 
claim  of  the  Church  upon  the  loyalty  of  man." 

Stephen  could  restrain  himself  no  longer.  He 
moved  forward  so  as  to  avoid  Edmund's  warning  eye, 
and  faced  the  Bishop  directly. 

"My  lord,"  he  said,  "forgive  me  if  I  speak  from 
a  point  of  view  which  is  not  your  own,  but  upon  what 
do  you  base  this  universal  claim  to  blind  obedience  ?  In 
what  sense  can  the  interests  of  the  Church  be  identified 
with  those  of  human  society  ? " 

"  There  is  nothing  to  forgive,"  replied  the  Bishop ; 
"  it  is  a  great  part  of  my  business  in  life  to  answer  that 
question,  and  I  may  begin  by  saying  that  I  do  not  in 
the  least  expect  to  find  a  difference  between  your  point 
of  view  and  mine.  We  probably  all  stand  upon  the 
same  ground ;  where  we  may  differ  is  in  the  clearness 
and  completeness  of  the  survey  we  take  from  it.  I 
agree  with  you  in  repudiating  the  claim  for  'blind 
obedience.'  If  there  is  to  be  obedience,  it  should  be 
based  on  a  scientific  conception  of  the  nature  of  human 
society." 


182  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

Stephen  could  not  conceal  his  surprise ;  he  assented 
cordially  to  this  proposition. 

"  Such  a  conception,"  continued  the  Bishop,  "  cannot 
be  derived  from  our  knowledge  of  the  world  of  nature, 
for  it  must  be  rational ;  nor  from  the  idea  of  a  distinc- 
tion between  races  or  nations,  for  it  must  be  universal. 
The  community  we  are  thinking  of  must  include  all 
mankind,  and  our  idea  of  it  must  take  into  account 
spiritual  as  well  as  material  existence.  I  need  hardly 
remind  you  that  there  is  not,  and  has  never  been,  more 
than  one  sucfr  conception  of  the  world.  In  the  Christian 
view,  and  in  that  view  alone,  mankind  is  one  vast 
community,  under  the  supreme  government  of  God, 
from  whom  all  subordinate  rulers  derive  their  authority 
directly  or  indirectly.  This  society,  this  Whole,  is 
divided  and  subdivided  again  and  again  into  parts, 
until  we  come  down  to  the  unit  or  individual.  Every 
one  of  these  intermediate  parts  has  a  double  aspect; 
it  is  a  Whole  with  reference  to  its  own  parts,  and  at 
the  same  time  a  Part  of  the  Whole  above  it.  Now, 
since  this  articulated  commonwealth  of  the  human  race 
is  a  true  organism,  a  mystical  Body,  it  must  have  not 
only  one  government,  but  one  law.  Its  law  is  this,  that 
the  Whole  must  always  come  before  the  Part,  the  One 
before  the  Many,  the  Community  before  the  Individual." 

Stephen  would  have  spoken,    but  Edmund    was 
before  him. 


THE  BISHOPS  MOVE  183 

"  My  lord,"  he  said,  "  I  can  but  say  that  I  humbly 
assent  to  all  this ;  it  has  been  part  of  my  education 
as  a  priest.  But  human  life  has  two  sides ;  and  when 
you  deal  with  me,  not  as  an  ecclesiastic,  but  as  a 
member  of  my  family,  surely  the  case  falls  on  the 
secular  side." 

"  It  is  true,"  replied  the  Bishop,  "  that  man  has  two 
destinies — one  Spiritual,  and  one  Temporal — presided 
over  by  two  Orders  of  authority.  Nevertheless,  he  is 
not  himself  two,  but  one.  We  cannot  be  content  with 
any  system  which  would  separate  his  two  existences ; 
there  must  be  some  higher  unity  in  which  they  are 
fused.  Of  the  two  Orders,  can  we  doubt  which  of  the 
two  is  that  which  must  include  and  dominate  the 
other  ?  The  One  State  can  only  be  the  Givitas  Dei ; 
the  One  Authority  must  be  the  Church." 

Edmund  could  go  no  further ;  it  was  not  for  him 
to  plead  against  the  authority  of  the  Church.  But 
neither  could  he  leave  the  argument  to  be  taken  up 
by  Stephen  where  he  had  dropped  it.  He  must  escape 
from  this  dangerous  ground,  however  abruptly. 

"May  I  remind  your  lordship,"  he  said,  "that  it 
is  not  the  supremacy  of  the  Spiritual  Power  which  is 
in  question  now;  what  we  are  permitted  to  discuss 
is  rather  the  sphere  of  its  activity.  Ealph  is  a  priest, 
and  undoubtedly  subject  in  every  way  to  ecclesiastical 
authority.  Will  not  your  lordship  be  satisfied  with 


184  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

his  submission,  if  his  friends  can  bring  him  to  that 
frame  of  mind  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  the  Bishop,  sternly ;  "  submission  is  not 
enough.  There  must  be  recantation  ex  animo,  and  that 
you  will  never  get  from  him." 

"  The  submission  and  penitence  may  be  real,"  said 
Edmund,  "  though  the  opinions  remain ;  and  how  can 
any  authority  change  them  ? " 

"What  the  physician  cannot  heal  the  surgeon 
amputates,"  replied  the  Bishop,  shortly,  rising  from 
his  seat. 

"  Ah !  my  lord,"  cried  Edmund,  with  despairing 
earnestness,  "  forgive  me  if  I  offend,  but  there  must 
be  some  quiet  place  between  expulsion  and  agreement 
where  opinion  may  breathe  a  silent  freedom.  I  know 
well  that  it  is  the  inward  union,  not  the  outward,  that 
best  deserves  the  name;  but  is  it  not  also  the  rarer 
and  more  difficult  of  attainment  ?  What  is  agreement, 
as  between  man  and  man  ?  My  brother  and  I  may 
indeed  use  the  same  words,  but  who  can  tell  if  they 
bear  the  same  colour  to  his  inward  sight  and  mine  ? 
It  is  our  hearts,  and  not  our  intellects,  that  must  be 
one.  If  the  heart  submits,  can  the  intellect  deserve 
the  outer  darkness  ?  " 

A  stormy  cloud  of  anger  was  gathering  on  the 
Bishop's  face.  He  turned  suddenly  away  from  Edmund, 
and  spoke  to  Stephen  in  a  voice  thick  with  the  coming 
thunder. 


THE  BISHOP'S  MOVE  185 

"  And  you,  sir,  how  would  you  have  me  deal  with 
the  conforming  heretic  ? " 

Stephen's  blood  was  up;  he  was  glad  of  his 
opportunity. 

"  My  lord,"  he  said,  "  it  would  be  of  little  use  for 
me  to  adopt  your  standpoint,  even  if  I  could  do  it.  I 
should  still  see  the  world  differently,  for  what  is  black 
to  you  is  white  to  me.  What  you  call  heresy  I  call 
a  salutary  difference  of  opinion.  I  am  a  Christian  and 
a  well-wisher  to  the  Church ;  but  my  view  is  that  it 
is  by  such  differences  that  the  Church  benefits  most. 
Give  them  free  expression,  and  answer  the  dissentients 
if  you  can.  Whatever  the  result  of  the  argument  may 
be,  you  will  stimulate  intellectual  effort  and  invigorate 
faith  itself.  Besides,  you  will  keep  the  minds  of  your 
people  alive  to  the  fact  that  the  aspect  of  truth  is 
continually  changing.  Hitherto  the  Church  has  always 
been  taken  by  surprise.  All  that  you  get  by  suppress- 
ing inquiry  is  an  unwholesome  sleep,  from  which  your 
patient  wakes  bewildered.  The  fact  is  that  authority 
is  no  remedy  for  doubt ;  it  is  only  a  drug  that  must  be 
administered  in  stronger  and  stronger  doses.  In  the 
end  it  fails  altogether,  and  you  get  paralysis." 

The  Bishop's  brow  contracted,  his  head  leaned 
forward  over  his  chest,  and  his  eyes  gleamed  like  the 
points  of  two  spears  levelled  irresistibly  at  Stephen. 

"  I  asked  for  your  opinion,"  he  said,  "  and  I  cannot 


186  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

complain  if  you  have  given  me  nothing  but  words,  for 
you  have  nothing  else  to  give.  Learn  from  me  in 
return  that  life  is  not  a  school  of  rhetoric,  where  the 
divine  government  of  the  world  is  an  image,  an 
ornament,  a  figure  of  speech  like  any  other,  and  where 
the  truths  by  which  men's  souls  are  saved  are  fit 
subjects  for  a  thesis  or  a  disputation.  You  have  been 
listening  to  the  same  eloquent  devil  who  has  led  Ralph 
Tremur  into  the  most  deadly  of  all  heresies,  who  has 
taught  him  to  deny  the  Sacrament  in  which  all 
other  Sacraments  are  completed,  perfected,  and  con- 
firmed ;  the  food  by  which  the  people  of  Christ  are 
daily  refreshed  spiritually  that  they  may  not  faint  by 
the  way;  the  gift,  than  which  it  is  impossible  to 
imagine  anything  more  worthy  of  our  acceptance  or 
more  conducive  to  the  salvation  of  men ;  the  mystery 
in  which  is  most  triumphantly  displayed  the  power 
entrusted  to  God's  ministers  on  earth.  You  speak  at 
large  of  salutary  differences ;  but  I  tell  you  that  this 
man  preaches  and  affirms  in  public  and  in  private  other- 
wise than  as  the  Holy  Catholic  and  Apostolic  Church 
believes,  preaches,  and  affirms.  He  dares  erroneously 
and  heretically  to  assert  and  maintain  that  the  bread 
and  wine  are  not  changed  substantially  by  the  words 
of  Consecration;  which  manifestly,  and  beyond  all 
doubt,  is  to  subvert  entirely  the  Catholic  Faith,  to  make 
void  every  one  of  the  Sacraments,  and  utterly  to  destroy 


THE  BISHOP'S  MOVE  187 

the  truth  of  the  Gospel.  Is  it  by  the  hearing  of  such 
blasphemy  that  we  shall  refresh  our  minds  and  stimu- 
late our  faith  ?  If  Authority  is  a  drug,  what  is  this  ? 
Is  it  not  the  venom  upon  the  mad  dog's  tongue,  and 
shall  we  not  justly  harden  our  hearts  to  cut  out  that 
poisonous  tongue  and  cast  it  forth  among  the  swine  ?  " 

The  blow  had  fallen.  Its  violence  had  taken 
Stephen's  breath,  but  left  him  unshaken ;  he  felt  like 
one  who  has  expected  a  crushing  swordstroke  and 
encountered  only  a  handful  of  sand.  He  was  none  the 
less  embarrassed,  for  though  he  saw  a  hundred  joints 
in  his  opponent's  armour,  he  saw  also  that  the  distance 
between  the  Bishop  and  himself  was  too  great  for  any 
weapon  of  his  to  reach  them.  Besides,  he  repented 
already  of  his  own  impetuosity,  and  was  apprehensive 
for  his  friends  rather  than  for  himself. 

Before  he  could  collect  himself  Edmund's  quiet,  sad 
voice  interposed. 

"  Let  it  be  me,  and  not  Stephen,  to  bear  the  blame 
for  having  angered  your  lordship.  It  is  all  the  fault 
of  my  weakness  in  not  asking  at  first  what  is  exactly 
the  nature  of  the  service  required  of  us." 

The  Bishop  saw  the  opportunity ;  he  turned  with  a 
more  gracious  manner  to  Edmund,  and  the  vehemence 
died  out  of  his  voice. 

"  The  Church  is  merciful,"  he  said,  "  and  so  long  as 
there  is  any  discretion  left  to  me  you  may  be  sure, 


188  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

Edmund,  that  old  friendship  will  weigh  heavily  in  the 
balance.  Perhaps  you  have  been  unjust  to  me  in  your 
thoughts.  When  I  spoke  of  casting  out,  it  was  no 
extreme  penalty  with  which  I  threatened  Ralph.  For 
excommunication  I  should  not  need  to  ask  your  help ; 
but  I  have  determined  to  offer  one  more  chance  to  a 
man  who  may,  after  all,  be  more  mad  than  consciously 
depraved.  I  am  about  to  issue  a  letter  to  the  officials 
of  my  diocese,  setting  out  the  facts  and  enjoining  upon 
all  my  people  that  until  this  unhappy  man  has  returned 
to  his  right  mind  they  are  to  abstain  from  all  manner 
of  dealing  or  intercourse  with  him,  and  to  refuse  him 
every  necessary  of  human  life.  It  is  possible  that,  even 
at  the  eleventh  hour,  this  may  bring  him  to  a  sense  of 
his  true  situation.  He  has  now  but  few  friends  left 
outside  the  diocese,  and  where  they  are,  like  yourselves, 
in  a  position  to  give  him  shelter  or  support,  I  am 
calling  upon  them,  in  the  name  of  their  duty  to  the 
Church,  to  consider  themselves  as  much  bound  by  my 
proclamation  as  if  they  were  actually  members  of  my 
particular  flock." 

Edmund  made  no  answer  in  words ;  his  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  the  speaker's  face,  but  they  seemed  to 
convey  no  message  to  him.  The  silence  again  gave 
the  Bishop  his  opportunity. 

"Do  not  think,"  he  continued  more  kindly  still, 
"  that  I  mistake  anything  you  have  said,  Edmund,  for 


THE  BISHOP'S  MOVE  189 

resistance  to  the  voice  of  the  Church.  Your  desire  to 
save  your  friend  Ealph  is  a  right  desire,  and  one  for 
which  I  honour  you.  It  was  upon  this  feeling  of  yours 
that  I  relied  in  coming  here,  and  I  am  glad  to  find 
that  it  is  not  less  deep  and  faithful  than  I  had  hoped. 
Wild  and  reckless  as  he  has  been,  it  is  difficult  to 
believe  that  he  will  not  pause  to  reflect  when  he  finds 
that  he  is  losing  the  countenance  of  even  his  best  and 
oldest  friends." 

Edmund  was  still  silent,  and  Stephen  wondered 
whether  the  Bishop's  attitude  was  purely  diplomatic,  or 
whether  he  was  in  reality  convinced  of  the  complete- 
ness of  his  victory.  Whichever  was  the  case,  he 
appeared  to  be  satisfied,  and  as  they  came  in  sight  of 
the  house  once  more  his  voice  was  once  more  soundin» 

O 

a  cheerful  and  reassuring  note.  But  no  one  could  now 
mistake  Edmund's  look  for  anything  but  depression, 
or  Stephen's  for  anything  but  angry  and  ill-subdued 
defiance. 


XXVII 

TEN  minutes  later  the  whole  party  was  assembled  in 
the  courtyard.  Two  horses  only  were  waiting  there, 
for  the  servants  with  the  baggage  had  left  nearly  two 
hours  earlier,  and  the  Bishop,  who  meant  to  overtake 
them  at  Sherborne,  had  refused  all  escort  or  company 
in  order  to  be  free  to  ride  his  own  pace  from  the 
moment  of  his  departure. 

Lady  Marland  and  Sir  Henry  bade  him  good-bye 
from  the  step  of  the  porch.  Both  of  them,  Stephen 
knew,  must  in  truth  have  been  relieved  to  see  him  go, 
but  this  feeling  seemed  to  be  completely  overlaid  in 
her  case  by  her  warm  hospitality,  and  in  Sir  Henry's 
by  an  old  man's  reluctance  to  part  from  a  friend  for 
what  might  be  the  last  time. 

"  Good-bye,"  said  Lady  Marland,  in  her  high  little 
voice.  "  I  wish  you  could  have  stayed  to  dinner ;  but 
you  will  find  something  in  your  saddle-bags  to  remind 
you  of  us  when  the  time  comes." 

"  Good-bye,"  said  Sir  Henry ;  "  and  if  I  live  to  see 
you  here  again,  I  hope  you  will  spare  us  a  day  or  two 
more — perhaps  when  Guy  and  Harry  are  back  from 
France." 

190 


THE  BISHOPS  DEPASTURE  191 

"  You  may  be  sure,"  said  the  Bishop  to  them  both, 
"  that  I  shall  not  forget  your  kindness,  and  that  I  shall 
come  again  as  soon  as  I  can.  I  have  many  troubles  to 
contend  with  nowadays,  and  few  old  friends  to  help 
me.  I  am  the  more  grateful  to  those  upon  whom  I  can 
still  depend." 

He  looked  round  for  the  others:  Aubrey  was  in 
the  middle  of  the  courtyard,  feeding  the  horses  with 
withered  apples  from  the  storeroom,  but  Edmund  and 
Stephen  were  close  beside  him,  and  his  gesture  seemed 
to  imply  that  his  last  remark  was  intended  for  at  least 
one  of  them  as  well  as  for  their  elders.  His  parting 
words  to  Edmund  made  this  clearer  still. 

"It  has  been  a  great  pleasure  to  me,"  he  said, 
laying  his  hand  on  the  younger  man's  shoulder,  "to 
find  you  here.  I  shall  always  be  sorry  that  you  are  no 
longer  in  my  diocese,  but  I  am  happy  to  think  that 
your  father  has  such  a  son  within  call." 

Edmund  looked  steadily  at  the  Bishop,  but  in  spite 
of  his  self-control  his  face  showed  nothing  but  pain. 

"Do  not  praise  me,  my  lord,"  he  said,  with  an 
effort ;  "  I  am  very  far  from  deserving  it." 

"No;  it  is  not  for  me  to  praise  you,"  said  the 
Bishop,  quietly  ;  "  but  you  have  the  great  gift  of  self - 
surrender,  and  I  am  thankful  for  it." 

Edmund's  lips  trembled;  he  was  on  the  point  of 
some  less  ambiguous  protest,  but  the  Bishop  had 


192  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

turned  from  him  with  an  air  of  finality,  and  was 
addressing  a  curt  and  formal  farewell  to  Stephen.  This 
done  he  moved  towards  the  horses,  and  bent  over 
Aubrey  with  a  grave  and  almost  sorrowful  courtesy. 

Stephen  looked  quickly  back  at  Edmund,  and  from 
him  to  his  parents :  he  saw  them  all  three  as  victims 
helplessly  enmeshed  in  the  web  of  cunning.  Edmund 
at  least  was  in  rebellious  mood;  but  even  he  had  let 
the  time  go  by:  henceforth  the  struggle  would  be  no 
longer  with  the  spider,  but  with  the  net,  in  whose 
entanglement  every  movement  would  involve  them  all 
more  hopelessly,  for  the  net  was  woven  of  honour  and 
of  circumstance.  In  his  desperation  he  felt  that  he 
must  break  the  spell  at  any  cost  and  in  any  way ;  it 
mattered  little  what  was  said  or  done,  so  long  as  this 
fatal  acquiescence  was  torn  asunder  and  the  possibility 
of  resistance  once  regained.  He  had  no  time  to  think : 
in  a  moment  he  was  standing  by  the  Bishop,  who  was 
in  the  act  of  mounting. 

"  My  lord,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  so  full  of  emotion 
that  the  Bishop  turned  in  his  saddle  and  looked  down 
in  surprise,  "  may  I  say  this  before  you  go  :  I  fear 
that  you  are  carrying  away  a  false  impression;  that 
you  have  misunderstood  the  spirit  in  which  your 
request  has  been  received." 

He  stopped  in  evident  perturbation,  and  for  once 
the  Bishop's  insight  failed  him.  It  was  natural  enough 


THE  BISHOP'S  DEPARTURE  193 

that  this  young  friend  of  the  Marlands  should  have 
come  to  his  senses,  and  seen  the  outrageous  impropriety 
of  his  language  of  an  hour  ago ;  his  submission  came 
at  the  last  moment  as  a  fitting  completion  of  the 
morning's  work,  and  the  manner  and  voice  of  the 
penitent  seemed  to  leave  no  doubt  as  to  his  sincerity. 
The  prelate's  face  relaxed  and  his  tone  was  of  the  most 
gracious. 

"  I  am  more  than  glad,"  he  said,  "  to  hear  this,  and 
to  hear  it  from  you." 

For  a  moment  Stephen  was  bewildered ;  but  there 
was  no  time  to  ask  himself  what  had  happened.  All 
that  he  could  see  was  the  miraculous  change  in  the 
Bishop's  manner ;  he  saw,  too,  in  a  instant  how  to  use 
his  opportunity. 

"  There  is  one  thing,"  he  said,  "  one  little  thing,  my 
lord,  which  I  beg  you  to  consider.  Could  you  not 
grant  a  private  audience  to  Ralph  Tremur  before  you 
take  this  step  against  him?  It  would  mean  a  great 
deal  to  us." 

In  his  eagerness  to  enforce  his  petition  by  every 
possible  influence,  he  had  almost  unconsciously  taken 
Aubrey's  hand  in  his.  She  hardly  understood  what 
he  was  about,  but  she  saw  that  he  was  very  much  in 
earnest,  and  did  not  draw  it  away.  Her  apparent  con- 
fusion put  a  new  thought  into  the  Bishop's  quick  brain, 
and  again  he  deceived  himself.  Stephen,  as  he  now 

o 


194  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

saw  him,  was  not  only  a  young  man  moved  by  an 
excellent  impulse  and  a  friend  of  the  Marlands;  he 
appeared  to  stand  in  an  intimate  relation  to  Aubrey, 
for  whom  no  tenderness  could  be  too  great.  The 
gracious  face  softened  still  more,  and  the  voice  became 
almost  paternal. 

"  If  it  would  mean  so  much  to  you,"  he  said,  look- 
ing down  upon  them  as  they  stood  hand-in-hand  before 
him,  "  I  will  do  what  you  ask.  I  will  give  you  twelve 
days  from  to-day.  If  within  that  time  you  can  find 
Ralph  and  persuade  him  to  come  to  me,  I  will  see 
him.  I  shall  be  at  Chudleigh.  But  remember,"  he 
said,  gathering  up  his  reins,  "I  cannot  wait  beyond 
the  octave  of  the  Holy  Trinity ;  and  whether  he  comes 
or  not,  I  warn  you  against  the  bitterness  of  vain 
hopes." 

He  raised  his  bridle  hand  and  was  gone,  without 
looking  back.  The  next  moment  the  beat  of  his 
great  horse's  hoofs  thundered  on  the  steep  path  be- 
hind the  house,  mounting  at  a  pace  that  seemed  to 
the  listeners  to  have  something  of  the  ruthlessness 
of  war. 

Edmund  was  standing  by  Stephen  and  Aubrey ;  he 
had  heard  with  amazement  the  Bishop's  last  words,  and 
his  face  was  radiant. 

"What  have  you  done?"  he  cried.  "Do  you 
know  what  you  have  done  ? " 


THE  BISHOP'S  DEPARTURE  195 

"  Not  quite,"  replied  Stephen,  looking  at  Aubrey. 

"  Can  you  find  Kalph  ? "  asked  Aubrey,  eagerly. 

"Find  him!"  said  Edmund.  "He  is  here!  That 
was  our  danger,  and  you  have  saved  us,  Aubrey." 

"  It  was  not  I,"  she  replied ;  "  it  was  Stephen." 

Edmund  looked  from  one  to  the  other ;  it  was  in- 
credible that  the  Bishop  should  have  granted  anything 
to  Stephen.  But  since  they  both  would  have  it  so,  he 
was  content. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  I  do  not  understand;  but  between 
you,  you  have  accomplished  a  miracle.  And  now  let 
us  all  go  and  bring  Ealph  home." 

Stephen,  too,  had  been  puzzled,  but  his  conversa- 
tion with  the  Bishop  was  now  coming  back  clearly  to 
his  mind,  and  he  suddenly  perceived  the  explanation  of 
his  own  success.  It  was  an  embarrassing  discovery,  for 
he  might  well  seem  to  have  profited  knowingly  by  a 
misunderstanding.  As  he  passed  out  through  the  path- 
way he  was  conscious  that  Aubrey's  eyes  were  upon 
him,  and  he  wondered  uncomfortably  how  his  conduct 
appeared  to  her.  But  when  he  looked  round  she 
smiled  in  reply  with  sparkling  eyes. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "that  was  a  splendid  stroke  of 
yours.  You  took  him  quite  by  surprise." 

Clearly  she  had  understood  little  or  nothing  of 
what  had  passed;  but  he  still  wondered  whether  he 
ought  not  to  explain.  Then  he  remembered  that  the 


196  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

Bishop  had  made  two  mistakes,   not  one.      Of   the 
second,  at  least,  nothing  could  induce  him  to  speak. 

"  Come,"  said  Edmund,  turning  back  to  them,  "  the 
sooner  we  can  tell  Ealph,  the  sooner  I  shall  believe  it 
myself." 


XXVIII 

EALPH  was  at  Curtrey  Hill,  a  farm  scarcely  more  than 
half  a  mile  from  Gardenleigh  House,  but  lying  over  on 
the  Buckland  side  of  the  estate,  and  completely  screened 
from  the  park  and  road  by  the  continuous  line  of  high 
woods.  He  had  arrived  almost  immediately  after  the 
Bishop's  first  messenger,  and  had  been  taken  over  to 
his  place  of  hiding  only  just  in  time  to  avoid  the 
second.  His  presence  there  had  been  successfully  con- 
cealed from  Lady  Marland  and  from  Aubrey,  but  the 
knowledge  of  it  had  added  greatly  to  the  anxiety  of 
Edmund  and  his  father,  who  were  only  too  well  aware 
of  the  risk  they  ran  if  by  any  unlucky  chance  or  rash- 
ness on  Kalph's  part  a  meeting  should  take  place  with 
the  Bishop  on  their  own  ground.  They  must  have 
been  drawn  into  the  conflict  before  they  had  had  any 
chance  of  consulting  with  Ealph  or  pressing  modera- 
tion upon  him;  they  could  not  have  abandoned  him 
to  his  adversary,  as  they  certainly  would  have  been 
called  upon  to  do.  The  resulting  situation  must  have 
been  the  worst  possible  for  every  one  concerned. 

"  What  we  have  to  do  now,"  said  Edmund,  as  they 
walked  rapidly  up  to  the  head  of  the  valley,  "  is  to  let 

197 


198  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

Ealph  talk  himself  out,  and  then  get  a  promise  out 
of  him." 

"Exactly  what  we  have  done  with  the  Bishop," 
replied  Stephen.  "Is  there  so  much  resemblance 
between  them  ? " 

Edmund  was  in  high  spirits;  he  laughed  heartily 
at  this  question. 

"  I  wonder,"  he  said,  "  which  of  them  would  be  the 
more  insulted !  You  could  not  imagine  a  more  perfect 
contrast ;  each  has  just  the  qualities  that  are  entirely 
wanting  in  the  other.  You  have  seen  the  dignity,  the 
unction,  the  governing  force,  the  constructive  ability;  the 
other  will  show  you  the  fanaticism,  the  rough  common 
sense,  the  learning,  and  the  destructive  critical  power, 
in  which  the  Bishop  neither  has  nor  would  wish  to 
have  any  part.  The  Bishop's  intellect  was  from  the 
first  mortgaged  to  his  creed ;  but  there  is  probably  no 
proposition  known  which  Ealph  has  not  denied  at 
one  time  or  another.  However,  you  will  see  for 
yourself." 

"  Do  you  know  him  ?  "  said  Stephen  to  Aubrey. 

"  Oh  yes,"  she  replied ;  "  I  have  seen  him  more  than 
once,  long  ago.  I  remember  I  was  very  much  afraid  of 
him ;  he  used  long  Latin  sentences,  and  asked  me 
strange  questions.  Once  he  told  me  that  there  is  no 
such  thing  as  time." 

"  Oh ! "    said    Stephen,    flinching    from    his    own 


RALPH  TREMTTR  199 

troubled  recollection  of  their  early  talk  upon  the 
terrace.  "  What  did  you  say  to  that  ? " 

"I  was  angry,"  she  replied,  "and  he  asked  me 
why.  I  said  that  I  would  not  believe  him,  because  I 
wanted  to  grow  up;  and  he  said  that  the  soul  never 
grows  up." 

"  I  remember,"  said  Edmund ;  "  but  that  was  years 
ago,  when  he  was  full  of  poetry  and  mysticism,  before 
he  took  service  with  Science.  I  am  afraid  he  is  only 
too  certain  now  that  his  own  soul  has  grown  up." 

The  light  had  gone  out  of  his  face  as  he  spoke, 
and  his  companions  said  no  more.  A  moment  after- 
wards they  reached  the  farm. 

Ealph  was  not  within,  but  he  could  not  be  far  off, 
for  he  had  only  just  left  the  house.  The  path  by  which 
he  was  said  to  ha"  ve  gone  led  them  off  to  the  left  of  the 
road,  by  the  side  of  a  long  hedge  which  divided  a  field 
of  pasture  from  a  much  larger  stretch  of  plough-land. 
Where  the  pasture  ended  they  turned  round  its  angle 
to  the  left  again,  and  saw  not  far  before  them  a  gate 
which  led  back  into  the  park.  On  the  other  side  of  it 
two  standing  stones  rose  from  a  mound  of  turf. 

"  Those,"  said  Edmund  to  Stephen,  "  are  the  oldest 
of  all  our  monuments ;  they  are  called  '  the  Gardenleigh 
Stones,'  and  are  said  to  have  been  erected  by  the 
Druids  for  some  purpose  connected  with  their  heathen 
sacrifices." 


200  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

They  passed  through  the  gate,  and  Stephen,  as  he 
stooped  to  refasten  it,  heard  a  sudden  exclamation.  He 
turned  quickly,  and  saw  Edmund  hurrying  forward  to 
greet  a  man  who  had  evidently  been  sitting  at  the  foot 
of  the  great  stones,  and  who  was  now  standing  placidly 
in  front  of  them  with  a  peculiarly  broad  and  shining 
smile  upon  his  face.  Was  it  possible  that  this  was 
Ealph  Tremur,  the  famous  Oxford  scholar,  the  man  of 
science,  the  great  anti-ecclesiastical  champion,  the 
proto-martyr  of  Protestantism,  the  one  mind  of  all  his 
generation  to  foresee  the  trend  of  modern  thought — if, 
indeed,  he  was  not  rather  the  progenitor  than  the 
prophet  of  the  change  to  come  ? 

Stephen's  fancy  conjured  up  the  figure  of  the  Bishop 
beside  him  as  he  stood  there  upon  the  little  knoll  of 
green  turf,  and  compared  the  two  antagonists;  his 
disappointment  was  keen,  for  the  contrast  was  sharp, 
and  it  was  at  the  first  glance  entirely  in  favour  of  the 
prelate.  There  was  no  appearance  of  birth,  dignity,  or 
learning  about  Ealph ;  every  line  of  him  was  plebeian, 
almost  coarse,  and  but  for  the  fact  that  his  brown  beard 
and  untrimmed  curly  hair  were  strangely  out  of  keeping 
with  his  priestly  dress,  his  whole  figure  would  have 
seemed  ordinary  in  the  extreme.  He  looked  young  for 
his  forty-five  years,  but  there  was  nothing  graceful  to 
compensate  for  the  lack  of  dignity,  and  his  face  was 
conspicuously  wanting  in  beauty  or  refinement:  the 


RALPH  TBEMUR  201 

features  were  too  thick,  the  eyes  pale,  the  nose 
spreading,  the  lips  too  full.  Stephen  remembered  to 
have  seen  just  such  a  broad,  smiling  countenance  in  a 
grotesque  representation  of  the  sun.  But  the  smilo 
was  a  good  one,  he  felt,  both  kindly  and  confident ;  and 
he  knew,  as  his  hand  fell  into  a  grasp  much  wider  and 
stronger  than  his  own,  that  here  was,  at  any  rate,  a 
human  and  a  lovable  character.  A  moment  later  he  had 
discovered  that,  though  every  feature  of  this  face  was 
plain,  there  was  not  a  trace  of  ugliness  in  it ;  and  he 
found  upon  further  reflection  that  the  combination  of  so 
much  that  was  commonplace  made  up,  after  all,  the 
distinct  expression  of  a  personality  unlike  any  he  had 
ever  known. 

"  I  suppose  from  your  all  coming  here,"  said  Ralph 
to  Edmund  with  the  greatest  good-humour,  "  that  my 
right  reverend  Father  in  God  is  no  longer  with  you  ? 
Ah !  if  only  you  could  have  let  us  meet !  " 

"  I  can,"  replied  Edmund.  "  I  have  come  to 
arrange  it." 

"  Good ! "  said  Ealph.     "  Where  is  he  ? " 

"  On  the  road  to  Chudleigh ;  he  expects  you  there." 

"  Oh ! "  said  Ealph ;  "  not  here  !  "    His  voice  sank  to 

the  tone  of  disappointment  naturally  enough,  but   to 

Stephen's  astonishment  it  suddenly  rose  again  into  a 

gust  of  the  most  violent  and  uncontrolled  rage.     "  The 

fox ! "  he  cried ;  "the  foul,  sleek  fox.    He  has  played 


202  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

with  you,  do  you  hear  ?  and  he  thinks  he  can  play  with 
me.  It  is  not  on  fair  and  open  ground  that  he  will 
meet  me,  but  down  there  in  his  own  vile  den,  among 
his  own  long-toothed  cubs,  where  truth  and  reason 
stand  no  better  chance  than  they  would  in  Eome 
itself!" 

His  face  was  distorted  and  debased  with  anger,  and 
the  sound  of  his  own  words  as  he  spat  them  forth 
seemed  to  increase  his  fury  rather  than  relieve  it.  It 
was  in  vain  that  Edmund  tried  to  put  in  a  word 
of  explanation;  the  torrent  carried  away  everything 
before  it. 

"  I  tell  you,"  he  went  on  fiercely,  "  that  I  know  the 
man,  and  you  do  not ;  to  think  of  reasoning  with  him  is 
the  crazy  bravado  of  drunkennes.  He  is  an  assassin,  a 
murderer  of  the  helpless  and  unarmed,  a  perjurer  who 
swears  away  innocent  lives  and  never  takes  an  honour- 
able challenge.  Do  you  know  what  he  has  said  of  me  ? — 
how  he  has  warped  my  words  and  turned  them  against 
me,  like  a  secret  poisoner  at  a  man's  own  table  ?  Listen ! 
Silence !  Listen !  In  my  argument  against  the  authority 
of  Eome,  I  said  that  Peter  the  fisherman  was  no  head 
for  a  Church  of  Cardinals  and  Princes;  no  Pope,  no 
sacrificing  Pontiff,  no  Potentate  of  Purgatory;  but  a 
plain,  good  countryman,  with  little  in  his  head  but 
country  matters.  This  Grandison  of  yours  knew  well 
enough!  He  could  not  meet  me  there;  he  charges  it 


RALPH  TREMUE  203 

against  me  instead  that  I  spoke  of  the  Blessed  Saint 
Peter  as  an  empty-headed  rustic;  and  that  I  blas- 
phemed Saint  John  as  a  liar  and  his  Gospel  as  false 
witness,  because  I  reasoned  in  my  sermon  on  the 
criticism  of  the  Scriptures  that  a  man  cannot  be  heard 
to  say  both  that  he  is  one  that  beareth  witness,  and  also 
that  he  voucheth  that  his  witness  is  true.  What  cares 
he  for  truth,  or  what  does  he  understand  of  it  ?  If  he 
stood  here  before  me  now,  must  I  call  him  traitor  and 
cold-hearted  coward,  or  dunce  and  numbskull,  ass  and 
the  colt  of  an  ass  ? " 

It  was  not  so  much  the  unrestrained  vehemence  of 
the  man  that  shocked  Stephen  so  painfully,  but  the 
disappearance  from  his  face  of  all  that  had  ennobled  it. 
Nothing  remained  but  the  vulgarity,  and  from  the  sight 
of  such  a  complete  and  sudden  degradation  Stephen 
found  himself  instinctively  averting  his  eyes.  Edmund 
had  taken  Tremur's  arm  and  was  drawing  him,  still 
vociferous  and  uncontrolled,  along  the  edge  of  the  wood 
towards  the  path  by  which  they  had  come.  Aubrey 
and  Stephen  turned  away  to  the  right  over  the  grass, 
and  made  more  directly  for  the  house,  which  they 
reached  without  having  exchanged  more  than  half  a 
dozen  formal  sentences. 


XXIX 

EDMUND  and  Ealpli  were  not  at  dinner,  and  it  appeared, 
upon  inquiry,  that  neither  of  them  had  been  seen  near 
the  house.  Aubrey  explained  to  Lady  Marland  what 
had  happened,  and  a  discussion  followed  on  Ealph's 
peculiarities,  which  had  been  well  known  to  the  whole 
family  since  very  early  days. 

"  He's  a  queer  fellow,"  said  Sir  Henry ;  "  but  he's 
a  dear  fellow,  too,  for  all  that." 

"Henry,"  said  his  wife,  in  a  tone  of  pugnacious 
warning,  "  I  hope  you  are  not  going  to  defend  him 
when  he  does  wrong." 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  he  replied,  with  a  droll  look  aside 
in  Stephen's  direction,  "  I'm  a  bad-tempered  man 
myself,  and  I  always  think  there's  something  to  be 
said  for  temper." 

"You  are  not  bad-tempered,"  said  Lady  Marland, 
severely — "  at  least  not  to  that  extent ;  if  you  were, 
you  know  that  you  would  be  unendurable  to  every- 
body." 

"That  may  be,"  replied  her  husband  with  serene 
irony  ;  "  but  Ealph  is  not  unendurable  to  any  one  who 
really  knows  him,  and  I  can  tell  you  why." 

204 


STEPHEN'S  MONEY  205 

"Of  course  he  has  his  good  qualities,"  said  Lady 
Marland.  "  I  hope  we  all  of  us  have." 

"  No,"  said  Sir  Henry,  "  it  is  not  only  that ;  it  is 
that  bad  temper  is  not  so  much  a  vice  as  an  ailment, 
and  a  very  painful  one,  much  to  be  pitied.  Most 
people  learn  that,  and  act  on  it — at  least  most  men 
do."  He  glanced  again  at  Stephen  as  an  audacious 
schoolboy  glances  at  a  quieter  companion. 

Stephen  thought  it  might  be  well  to  save  his  hostess 
from  further  aggravation,  however  humorously  ad- 
ministered. 

"  I  confess,"  he  said,  "  that  I  was  really  troubled  by 
what  I  saw  this  morning ;  it  was  so  complete  a  trans- 
formation, and  so  ugly.  But  I  can  quite  understand 
what  Sir  Henry  means  about  such  faults  not  making 
a  man  unendurable  to  his  friends.  We  don't  love  our 
friends  for  their  qualities,  and  obviously  we  don't  hate 
them  for  their  faults,  if  they  are  really  friends." 

"  I  wonder  what  it  is  exactly  that  we  do  love  them 
for,"  said  Aubrey. 

"  For  themselves,"  replied  Stephen  —  "  for  their 
personality." 

"  "What  is  it,  then,"  she  asked,  "  that  makes  them 
themselves  ?  " 

He  looked  across  at  her,  and  a  long  train  of  thought 
formed  in  his  brain  so  rapidly  that  every  link  of  it 
seemed  to  have  gone  past  before  he  could  seize  and 


206  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

arrest  it.  Three  days  ago  he  would  have  been  in  no 
such  difficulty ;  but  since  then  the  question  had  taken 
an  unheard-of  form,  and  here  was  the  Sphinx  herself 
asking  him  the  riddle  of  her  own  existence. 

Aubrey  saw  that  he  was  lost  in  a  reverie ;  but  his 
gaze  remained  fixed  upon  her,  and  she  knew  that  her 
aunt  was  looking  quietly  at  both  of  them,  speculating 
probably  on  the  meaning  of  the  sudden  silence.  She 
rose  rather  hastily,  made  some  trifling  request,  and  left 
the  room. 

"  Aubrey  says  odd  things  at  times,"  Lady  Marland 
observed  to  Stephen,  who  was  still  absorbed  in  his  own 
thoughts;  "but  there  is  no  harm  in  being  a  little  un- 
usual ;  she  is  as  good  as  gold,  and  never  cross-grained." 

He  came  back  to  consciousness  at  this,  but  it  took 
a  moment  or  two  for  the  mental  context  of  the  remark 
to  become  plain  to  him.  When  at  last  he  perceived 
the  trend  of  her  thought,  he  felt  his  cheeks  burn  sud- 
denly, as  if  with  a  sharp  blow. 

"No,  indeed,"  he  said,  "she  need^  no  defending." 
And  he  added  lamely,  "  I  was  not  thinking  of  her 
at  all." 

His  embarrassment  seemed  to  give  Lady  Marland 
complete  satisfaction;  but  at  this  moment  a  servant 
entered  the  room  and  announced  the  arrival  of  a  mes- 
senger for  Stephen.  He  supposed  it  to  be  a  man  from 
the  farm,  sent  by  Edmund,  and  went  out  at  once  to  the 


STEPHEN'S  MONEY  207 

courtyard,  glad  enough  to  escape,  as  Aubrey  had  done, 
from  a  position  of  unavoidable  awkwardness. 

The  messenger  had  come  on  horseback,  and  evidently 
from  a  much  greater  distance  than  Stephen  had  con- 
jectured. He  brought  a  small  but  heavy  packet,  which 
he  was  commissioned,  he  said,  to  deliver  only  into  the 
hands  of  the  gentleman  to  whom  it  was  addressed. 
Stephen  took  it  accordingly,  directed  him  to  stable  his 
horse  and  come  back  to  the  house  for  refreshment,  and 
turned  away,  with  knife  in  hand,  to  cut  the  string  of  his 
parcel.  But  as  he  was  in  the  very  act,  recollection 
came  upon  him  like  a  flash  from  a  distant  mirror, 
startling  and  puzzling  at  once.  From  whom  in  the 
world — from  whom  in  this  world — could  the  thing  have 
come  for  him  ?  To  the  Marlands  only,  of  all  their  gene- 
ration, could  he  or  his  presence  here  be  known ;  and  from 
his  own  lost  world  what  message  or  what  messenger 
could  follow  him  ? 

In  part,  at  any  rate,  these  questions  could  be  solved 
at  once ;  but  his  mind  was  so  busy  that  his  fingers  still 
delayed,  and  it  was  not  until  he  had  passed  through  the 
hall,  and  returned  to  the  room  where  he  had  left  his 
friends,  that  he  opened  the  parcel  at  last,  and  removed 
the  outer  wrapping.  Inside  was  a  smaller  but  more 
solid  packet,  and  a  letter  on  which  his  own  name  was 
once  more  inscribed. 

He  read  the  letter  twice.    The  writer,  a  steward  of 


208  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

his  own,  apparently,  on  an  estate  in  Warwickshire, 
informed  him  that  he  was  sending,  as  requested,  a  sum 
of  money  representing  one-fifth  of  the  rents  paid  at 
Lady  Day,  and  requested  his  instructions  as  to  the 
remainder,  which,  whether  in  money  or  in  kind,  he  now 
held  at  his  master's  disposal.  The  packet  contained  a 
round  sum  in  gold,  and  Stephen  perceived  by  a  very 
simple  calculation  that  his  income  from  this  source  was 
a  considerable  one. 

It  might  well  have  occurred  to  him  to  doubt  his 
own  right  to  this  property,  but  a  certain  disappointment 
at  the  commonplace  nature  of  the  letter,  and  a  sense  of 
difficulty  in  replying  to  it,  for  the  moment  entirely 
engrossed  his  thoughts.  Afterwards  a  curious  feeling 
grew  upon  him  that  the  whole  transaction,  troublesome 
as  it  was,  was  not  troublesome  for  the  first  time ;  the 
familiarity  of  it  became  more  and  more  impressed  upon 
him,  till  something  like  memory  began  to  stir  about  it, 
and  he  was  no  longer  sure  that  he  had  not  actually 
given,  or  dreamed  that  he  was  giving,  the  orders  which 
his  agent  had  obeyed.  But  that  was  later ;  at  the  first 
moment  he  was  conscious  only  of  the  difficulties  of  the 
situation,  and  instinctively  he  passed  the  letter  across 
the  table  to  Sir  Henry,  without  committing  himself  to 
a  word  of  explanation. 

Sir  Henry  read  it  in  his  turn,  laid  it  down,  and  took 
up  the  money. 


STEPHEN'S  MONEY  209 

"If  I  understand  it  rightly,"  he  said,  " this  is  a  fifth 
part  of  your  rents  for  the  half-year,  or  one-tenth  of 
your  annual  income.  But  what  you  want  with  so 
much  money  here,  I  cannot  imagine." 

"Oh,  money  is  always  useful,"  replied  Stephen, 
vaguely.  "  I  can't  tell  when  I  may  be  needing  it." 

"  In  the  mean  time,  I  suppose  you  want  me  to  put  it 
away  for  you  in  a  place  of  safety  ?  " 

He  counted  the  gold  pieces  out  upon  the  table. 
Stephen  took  two  of  them,  and  packed  up  the  rest 
again. 

"  I'll  see  to  that  at  once,"  said  Sir  Henry ;  and  he 
left  the  room  accordingly. 

"  My  dear  Stephen,"  said  Lady  Marland,  when  he 
had  gone,  "  this  is  a  welcome  surprise  to  me.  I  had  no 
idea  your  father  had  left  you  so  well  off ;  I  imagined 
he  had  parted  with  that  Warwickshire  property  long 
ago.  There  is  no  house  on  it,  is  there  ?  You  might 
settle  down  near  us,  and  look  about  you  for  a  wife. 
But  perhaps  you  have  thought  of  that  already  ? " 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  he  replied  in  his  most  formal 
tone,  "  but  there  are  difficulties  of  which  you  can  hardly 
be  aware." 

She  looked  encouragingly  at  him,  but  he  said  no 
more. 


XXX 

THE  afternoon  went  by  without  any  sign  of  Ealph  and 
Edmund,  and  at  supper  their  places  were  still  vacant. 
In  the  gallery  Lady  Marland  had  again  ordered  a  wood 
fire;  but  it  was  a  smaller  and  much  less  animated 
company  that  sat  around  it  this  evening.  Continual 
expectation  continually  disappointed  is  a  frame  of  mind 
very  unfavourable  to  any  kind  of  gaiety  or  enjoyment. 
Every  one's  thoughts  had  been  full  of  Ealph,  and  it 
seemed  very  dull  to  pass  the  whole  day  within  reach 
of  him  and  yet  be  unable  to  tell  him  of  their  efforts 
and  discuss  his  plans  with  him  before  the  freshness  of 
their  interest  had  worn  off. 

Stephen  felt  conscious  too  that  his  own  attitude 
to-night  was  not  adding  to  the  cheerfulness  of  the 
party.  He  was  tired  after  a  long  and  exciting  day,  and 
in  no  mood  to  cope  with  the  perplexities  of  his  own 
position.  The  sense  of  exile,  and  even  of  imprisonment, 
which  had  fallen  upon  him  early  that  morning  had 
been  forgotten  during  the  more  stirring  part  of  the  day, 
but  now  returned  with  double  weight.  He  was  almost 
angry  with  Aubrey  both  for  being  what  she  was,  and 
for  not  being  some  one  else.  He  was  quite  angry  with 

210 


SIR  HENRY'S  BOUNDARY  211 

Lady  Marland  for  her  evident  desire  to  intervene  in 
his  affairs  when  she  could  not  possibly  understand 
them.  These  feelings  were,  he  knew,  utterly  unreason- 
able, and  the  knowledge  added  to  his  discontent ;  but 
he  was  too  weary  to  play  more  than  a  defensive  part, 
and  nothing  better  occurred  to  him  than  to  avoid  as 
far  as  possible  the  society  of  both  the  ladies,  and  attach 
himself  to  Sir  Henry  for  the  remainder  of  the  evening. 
This  he  accomplished  without  difficulty. 

Aubrey  and  her  aunt  accepted  the  situation  with 
apparently  unconscious  serenity.  They  busied  them- 
selves with  needlework,  spoke  but  seldom,  and  then 
only  to  each  other  and  in  low  tones,  without  once 
attempting  to  join  in  the  men's  conversation,  or  indeed 
giving  any  sign  that  they  heard  it  at  all. 

Sir  Henry,  on  the  contrary,  discoursed  freely  and 
on  many  subjects,  and  his  ready  flow  of  conversation 
not  only  made  matters  easy  for  Stephen,  but  gave  him 
plenty  of  mental  distraction.  The  talk  came  back,  of 
course,  at  last  to  Ralph  and  his  affairs,  and  showed  that 
Sir  Henry  had  formed  a  very  clear  and  decided  view 
of  his  own  upon  the  case. 

"We  are  all  prepared,"  he  said,  "to  back  Ralph; 
but  I'm  not  sure  that  any  of  us  agree  with  him.  Some 
of  us  " — he  gave  a  confidential  nod  in  his  wife's  direc- 
tion— "  don't  like  his  temper ;  Edmund  disapproves  of 
his  theology  ;  I  am  happily  too  ignorant  to  understand 


212  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

it,  but  I  can  see  that  it  is  the  wrong  leg  to  put  forward 
in  a  fight." 

"  But  surely  that  is  past  help  now,"  said  Stephen. 
"  The  quarrel  is  on  that  very  point ;  it  is  not  either  the 
right  or  wrong  leg,  it  is  the  territory  for  which  the 
battle  is  to  be  fought." 

"  Very  good,"  replied  Sir  Henry ;  "  but  you  don't 
mean  to  tell  me,  as  a  soldier,  that  the  territory  for 
which  I  fight  must  necessarily  be  the  ground  on  which 
I  make  my  stand  ?  We  must  choose  our  position  for 
the  best  advantage ;  if  we  win  there,  we  win  elsewhere 
too.  Ealph's  quarrel  is  a  double  one.  He  claims  that 
the  Church  is  in  error  about  a  certain  doctrine;  but 
whether  he  is  right  or  wrong,  he  will  never  get  any 
following  there.  He  also  claims  that  his  friends  among 
the  laity  are  entitled  to  receive  and  support  him  in 
spite  of  his  Bishop's  condemnation.  Now,  I  don't  say 
he  is  certain  of  success  there  either ;  but  if  he  fails,  it 
will  not  be  for  want  of  a  certain  amount  of  backing,  up 
and  down  the  country.  We  are  a  very  stupid  lot  in 
England;  we  have  had  it  explained  to  us  for  many 
years  past  that  Popes  and  priests  are  our  lords  and 
masters,  but  we  have  somehow  never  taken  it  in.  You 
have  been  away,  Stephen,"  he  continued,  with  a  serious 
voice  and  a  mocking  arch  of  his  eyebrows;  "you 
probably  do  not  know  to  what  lengths  our  national 
stupidity  had  gone.  His  present  Holiness  has  been  at 


SIR  HENRY'S  BOUNDARY  213 

great  pains  to  teach  us  that  the  Church  rules  the  State 
and  he  rules  the  Church ;  but  within  these  last  five  years 
Parliament  has  twice  gone  wrong,  and  said  its  lesson 
upside  down.  First  they  denied  the  Pope's  power  to 
interfere  with  the  right  of  presentation  to  benefices  in 
England,  and  then  they  forbade  any  appeal  to  Eome 
from  a  judgment  of  the  King's  courts.  The  penalties 
attached  were  pretty  severe  too — outlawry,  imprison- 
ment for  life,  and  so  forth.  In  fact,  Stephen,  they  may 
be  said  to  have  put  a  certain  amount  of  obstinacy  into 
their  misunderstanding ;  and  if  they  are  called  up  again 
before  His  Holiness,  as  they  are  very  likely  to  be,  it 
would  not  surprise  me  to  hear  them  repeat  the  whole 
mistake  still  more  emphatically." 

"You  mean,"  said  Stephen,  smiling,  "that  the 
whole  country  is  in  a  rebellious  mood  ?  " 

"  It  is,  over  just  this  question  of  Church  and  State ; 
and  that  is  where  I  think  Ealph's  chance  lies.  If  he 
remains  in  his  own  diocese  and  preaches  heresy,  he  is 
answerable  to  his  own  Bishop,  as  every  priest  should 
be ;  it  is  only  reason.  But  if  he  goes  elsewhere,  there 
is  a  good  chance  of  his  countrymen  being  as  uncon- 
vinced by  the  Bishop's  logic  as  they  were  by  the  Pope's. 
And,  after  all,  we  laymen  are  still  in  a  majority." 

At  this  point  Lady  Marland  rose,  put  her  work 
back  in  her  basket,  and  took  Aubrey  away  to  bed. 

"  If  you  continue  to  receive  Ealph,"  asked  Stephen, 


214  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

as  soon  as  they  were  gone,  "  do  you  expect  the  Bishop 
to  go  to  extremes  ? " 

Sir  Henry  frowned.  "I  wish  Ealph  would  ask 
himself  that  question,"  he  replied.  "  The  Bishop  will 
do  what  the  Church  always  does;  he  will  go  just  as 
far  as  he  can  carry  public  opinion  with  him.  Fierce 
as  he  is,  he  always  puts  the  Church's  interest  before 
his  own  feelings.  He  certainly  will  not  get  people  like 
us  excommunicated  if  the  question  of  this  particular 
doctrine  is  kept  in  the  background ;  but  if  once  he  can 
get  Ealph  tried  on  the  point  of  Transubstantiation " 

The  door  opened,  and  Lady  Marland  reappeared. 
"Henry,"  she  said,  with  her  firmest  intonation,  "I 
don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about,  but  I  don't 
think  your  views  on  sacred  subjects  can  do  Stephen 
any  good,  especially  at  this  time  of  night." 

The  two  men  rose  meekly,  and  wished  each  other 
good  night. 


XXXI 

ON  the  following  morning  Edmund  returned  to  break- 
fast. He  brought  a  promise  from  Ealph  that  he  too 
would  come  over  during  the  day ;  but  the  exact  time 
was  uncertain,  for  he  was  occupied  in  drawing  up  and 
arranging  the  heads  of  his  argument  against  the  Bishop. 
Sir  Henry  made  a  humorous  gesture  of  despair,  and 
succeeded  in  putting  more  despair  than  humour  into  it. 
Lady  Marland  expressed  with  precision  her  opinion  of 
the  manners  of  this  very  unconventional  guest.  Aubrey 
made  excuses  for  Ealph  as  a  man  of  genius.  The 
windmill,  she  said,  must  work  when  the  wind  is  blow- 
ing, if  it  is  ever  to  work  at  all. 

"Windmill,  truly,"  said  Edmund.  "You  should 
have  seen  him ! " 

An  hour  afterwards  Ealph  no  longer  needed  defend- 
ing, for  he  came  in  person,  and  his  mere  appearance 
instantly  disarmed  all  criticism.  Stephen  found  himself 
once  more  under  the  necessity  of  revising  his  judgment 
of  this  extraordinary  man,  who  was  now  as  courteous 
and  as  charming  in  manner  as  yesterday  he  had  been 
the  reverse.  Any  one  seeing  him  in  this  mood  for  the 

215 


216  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

first  time  would  have  taken  good-humour  to  be  his 
most  prominent  characteristic,  and  must  have  admired 
the  look  of  bright  distinction  which  a  very  plain  set  of 
features  derived  from  the  sincerity  and  sweetness  of 
their  expression. 

His  own  affairs  seemed  to  be  entirely  laid  aside; 
he  talked  of  everything  else,  and  made  himself  agree- 
able to  every  one.  He  took  Aubrey  out  in  the  boat, 
brought  her  back  when  the  sun  became  too  hot  on  the 
water,  and  listened  for  an  hour  to  Sir  Henry's  views  on 
the  land  and  the  labourer.  At  dinner  he  entertained 
the  company  with  stories  in  the  Devon  dialect,  and 
afterwards  he  volunteered  to  escort  Lady  Marland  as 
far  as  one  of  the  lodges,  where  she  was  holding  her 
Wednesday  class  for  the  instruction  of  half  a  dozen 
tenants'  wives  in  plain  sewing  and  morals. 

He  returned  alone  from  this  walk,  and  found 
Edmund  and  Stephen  leaving  the  house  to  join  Aubrey 
and  her  uncle,  who  were  sitting  under  the  trees  on  the 
edge  of  the  down.  As  the  three  men  took  the  little 
green  path  which  slanted  up  the  hill,  Stephen  re- 
membered that  he  had  climbed  it  once  before  two  days 
ago,  and  that  in  the  very  nook  where  he  could  now  see 
Aubrey's  white  dress  among  the  shadows  he  had  sat 
alone  that  morning,  a  traveller  newly  arrived  from  the 
other  Gardenleigh,  and  not  yet  an  inmate  of  this  one. 
He  had  walked  in  a  strange  tangle  since  then,  but  for 


SIX  PROPOSITIONS  217 

the  moment  he  forgot  it  all  as  a  clear  voice  came  down 
the  slope  to  greet  their  approach. 

"We  wondered,"  said  Aubrey,  "how  long  you 
would  be  before  you  followed  us ;  it  is  deliciously  cool 
up  here — just  the  place  for  theologians." 

Ralph  sat  down  beside  her.  "  Was  it  here,"  he 
asked  his  two  companions,  "  that  you  had  your  battle 
yesterday  ? " 

"No,"  replied  Edmund,  pointing  to  the  fallen  tree 
by  the  water-side ;  "  it  was  down  there." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,"  said  Ralph.  "  I  should  wish 
always  to  take  my  stand  on  higher  ground  than  the 
Bishop." 

"Take  care,  then,"  said  Aubrey;  "even  a  Bishop 
might  look  down  upon  that  joke." 

"Not  this  Bishop,"  Ralph  replied  gaily;  "he  has 
come  down  far  lower.  He  once  said  that  my  position 
was  as  shaky  as  my  name." 

A  chorus  of  incredulous  laughter  greeted  this  state- 
ment ;  but  as  it  died  away  Aubrey's  quick  eye  saw  the 
shadow  descend  again  on  Ralph's  face. 

"  Would  you  mind,"  she  asked  him  instantly,  "  if  I 
were  to  change  places  with  you  ?  I  am  cramped  with 
sitting  so  long  in  one  position." 

The  move  was  effected  with  a  good  deal  of  disturb- 
ance, and  when  every  one  was  once  more  settled  the 
danger  had  passed.  Ralph,  however,  was  still  in  a 


218  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

more  serious  mood,  and  Sir  Henry  looked  grave  as  he 
saw  him  draw  out  and  unfold  a  sheet  of  paper  closely 
covered  with  a  fine  handwriting. 

"What  is  that,  Kalph?"  he  asked.  "It  looks 
rather  strong  meat  for  young  ladies  and  old  gentlemen, 
doesn't  it  ? " 

"Oh  no,"  replied  Ralph,  grimly;  "I  have  taken 
pains  to  make  this  plain  enough  for  understandings  far 
below  yours.  This  is  a  set  of  theses  addressed  to  the 
Bishop ;  if  you  will  allow  me,  I  will  read  them  to  you." 

"One  moment,"  said  Sir  Henry.  "Has  Edmund 
seen  them  ?  " 

"Not  yet,"  Ralph  answered;  "but  he  is  familiar 
enough  with  their  substance  to  be  able  to  comment  on 
them  at  once  if  he  feels  inclined." 

He  straightened  out  the  paper  and  began  to  read. 

"Against  certain  opinions  commonly  received  and 
held  upon  insufficient  or  erroneous  grounds,  and  more 
particularly  brought  forward  at  the  present  time  by  my 
Lord  Bishop  of  Exeter,  I  am  prepared  by  reasonable 
argument  to  maintain  the  following  propositions, 
namely : — 

"First,  that  Christendom  is  conterminous  neither 
with  the  inhabited  world  in  its  entirety,  nor  even  with 
the  circle  of  nations  known  to  us,  and  justly  reputed 
for  learning  and  chivalry.  It  follows  that  if,  as  the 
Bishop  alleges,  the  whole  human  race  is  included  under 


SIX  PROPOSITIONS  219 

one  divine  Imperium,  such  a  government  must  be  con- 
ducted on  wider  and  more  comprehensive  lines  than 
those  of  the  Christian  Church." 

"The  world  is  certainly  not  all  Christian,"  said 
Edmund;  "but  you  speak  almost  as  if  you  did  not 
think  it  desirable  that  it  should  be." 

"  No,"  replied  Ealph,  "  I  do  not  say  that ;  but  I  do 
say  that  we  Christians  have  no  right  to  despise  or 
ignore  those  of  other  religions.  Consider  what  we  owe 
to  Aristotle  and  Plato,  to  Seneca  and  the  Stoics,  and  in 
modern  times  to  Alfarabius,  Avicenna,  and  Algazel — 
not  only  philosophy,  but  ethics.  The  Saracens  would 
not  gain  much  by  taking  in  exchange  the  morals  of 
Avignon  or  Eome." 

"There  is  something  in  what  you  say,"  remarked 
Sir  Henry,  "  and  we  know  that  our  great-grandfathers 
accepted  Saladin's  people  as  brothers  in  chivalry;  but 
I  doubt  if  public  opinion  would  stand  even  that 
nowadays." 

"I  disagree  with  you  entirely,"  replied  Ealph. 
"Whatever  the  English  may  think  of  a  nation's 
religion,  they  think  a  good  deal  more  of  its  fighting 
capacities.  They  would  no  more  shrink  than  the  kings 
of  Spain  and  Portugal  have  shrunk  from  an  alliance 
with  a  heathen  power — black,  brown,  or  yellow — if 
they  were  sure  of  its  diplomacy  and  military  genius. 
Our  own  Prince  will  not  hesitate,  you  will  see,  to  join 


220  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

any  alliance  that  may  suit  him,  if  there  is  no  graver 
objection  to  be  met  than  the  presence  of  the  Moslem  as 
a  party  to  it." 

"Well,"  said  Sir  Henry,  doubtfully. 

"  We  have  wandered  a  little,"  said  Ealph ;  "  but  you 
see  what  I  mean:  the  claim  of  the  Church  to  govern 
all  men  by  Divine  right  is  based  on  premises  which  are 
contrary  to  the  facts  of  the  world.  I  pass  on  to  my 
second  point :  That  even  in  Christendom  itself,  if  there 
be,  as  the  Bishop  alleges,  only  one  State  and  one  Head, 
then  this  Head  must  be  not  the  Pope,  but  the  Emperor  > 
not  the  Spiritual  but  the  Temporal  Sovereign,  the  Church 
being  part  of  his  Eealm,  and  completely  absorbed  in  it. 
I  need  not  argue  that ;  it  is  all  in  Ockham,  and  Mar- 
silius  of  Padua  has  said  the  same  thing." 

"  All  the  same,"  said  Stephen,  "  I  can  assure  you 
that  the  Popes  will  never  abandon  their  claim  to  be  the 
overlords  of  all  Temporal  Powers." 

"  Then  we  shall  abandon  them,  that  is  all,"  replied 
Ealph. 

"  In  any  case,"  said  Edmund,  "  your  second  point 
will  not  convince  the  Bishop,  Ealph ;  go  on  to  the  third." 

"  The  third  is  this :  That  even  if  the  spiritual  are  to 
take  precedence  of  the  secular  forces  in  any  state,  this 
cannot  be  accomplished  by  the  domination  of  the  Church 
as  we  see  it.  A  visible  Church  must  always  be  an 
impure  image,  with  a  body  and  probably  a  head  of  clay, 


SIX  PROPOSITIONS  221 

and  far  from   comprehending,  even   in   its  parts  of 
genuine  gold  and  silver,  all  the  precious  metal  in  the 
world.     The  true  Church  of  Christ  is  no  elaborately 
organized  system,  no  corporation  with  a  legal  skin  of 
parchment,  no  noble  caste  with  titles  and  grades  of 
rank ;  it  is  an  invisible  body,  a  fellowship  which,  being 
based  upon  nothing  but  religion,  can  be  entered  by  all 
the  religious,  and  by  no  one  else  among  men ;  a  com- 
munity of  the  predestinated — those  who,  as  Bacon  says, 
taste  even  in  this  life  of  the  peace  which  is  the  sweet- 
ness of  the  life  eternal.     In  such  a  community  what 
need  or  place  is  there  for  the  tyrannous  authority  of 
Popes  or  Bishops?     And  close  upon  this  follows  my 
fourth  point:   That  even  if,  as  my  lord  alleges,  the 
Christian  world  is  divided  and  subdivided  between  a 
hierarchy  of  powers,  it  is  not  true  that  each  division  in 
turn  is  of  more  account  than  its  parts,  and  they  again 
of  more  account  than  the  individuals  which  compose 
them.     On  the  contrary,  it  is  always,  in  the  spiritual 
life,  the  Singular  which  must  come  before  its  Universal. 
God  has  created  this  world  and  devised  salvation  not 
for  the  sake  of  Universal  Man,  but  for  the  sake  of 
individual  persons.     There  is  therefore  no  community, 
no  Whole  or  partial  Whole,  which  is  entitled,  as  the 
Bishop   alleges,   to   claim  from  any  man   such  blind 
obedience  to  authority  as  would  be  harmful  to  his  own 
soul,  or  to  the  cause  of  truth." 


222  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

"  My  dear  Ralph,"  said  Edmund,  "  you  are  going  a 
little  too  fast ;  you  must  not  assume  that  we  all  assent 
to  all  that  you  have  been  saying." 

"  I  do,"  said  Stephen. 

"  So  do  I,"  said  Aubrey,  eagerly. 

"  But  perhaps,"  said  Edmund,  "  you  do  so  without 
having  clearly  before  you  the  difficulties  of  such  a 
position.  Is  there  nothing  in  union  and  organization 
that  you  abandon  them  so  lightly?  Can  you  have  a 
community  worth  the  name  if  it  is  not  conscious  of  its 
own  corporate  existence  ?  Will  not  the  individual  find 
his  life  widened  by  the  sense  of  an  acknowledged 
brotherhood,  and  will  not  his  powers  be  grer.tly  raised 
by  his  knowledge  that  he  is  associated  with  and  led  by 
others  stronger  and  better  than  himself  ?  And  is  it  not 
well  that  in  some  part  of  his  worship  he  should  be 
joined  with  his  fellows,  that  here  too  he  may  learn  to 
rid  himself  of  the  selfish  element,  and  express  that 
which  is  common  to  all  men  ?  " 

"  If  the  average  man,"  said  Stephen,  "  is  raised  by 
associating  with  the  better,  he  is  also  lowered  by 
contact  with  the  worse.  If  too  much  individualism 
is  a  source  of  weakness,  over-organization  produces 
deadness,  which  in  the  spiritual  life  is  far  more  fatal ; 
and  you  have  forgotten  to  consider  truth  and  science 
at  all." 

He  was  conscious  as  he  ended  that  he  had  spoken 


SIX  PKOPOSITIONS  223 

too  hotly  and  in  too  personal  a  tone.  But  Edmund 
seemed  untouched  by  it ;  his  interest  lay  too  deep  for 
personal  feeling,  and  he  replied  as  quietly  as  if  he  had 
been  musing  on  a  book  that  he  had  read. 

"It  is  too  often  forgotten,"  he  said,  "that  the 
Church  is  itself  a  scientific  institution,  and  concerned 
with  truth.  It  is  continually  occupied  in  investigating 
the  Christian  life  as  a  method.  As  with  other  scientific 
bodies,  one  of  its  main  functions  is  to  check  isolated 
results,  to  secure  continuity  and  permanence.  Its 
experiments  are  carried  on  over  centuries  of  time,  and 
in  them  is  gathered  up  the  experience  of  an  immense 
number  of  -witnesses,  living  and  dead.  The  life,  the 
method,  which  is  the  subject  of  this  unremitting  inquiry, 
it  teaches  to  all  who  will  learn,  from  their  early  youth 
to  their  last  conscious  moment.  The  truth  which  it 
possesses  and  imparts  is  no  doubt  imperfect,  for  it  has 
passed  through  human  vessels ;  but  it  i?  just  because 
the  Church  is  an  organized  body,  and  not  a  dispersion 
of  individual  atoms,  that  this  truth  has  been  preserved 
and  handed  on  at  all." 

"  Where  I  differ  from  you,"  said  Ealph,  "  is  on  the 
word  '  imperfect.'  What  the  Church  calls  truth  is  not 
only  partial,  but  largely  erroneous — a  survival  from  less 
enlightened  ages  than  ours,  and  repugnant  to  our 
reason  and  our  present  knowledge.  Individual  exami- 
nation and  criticism  would  long  ago  have  winnowed  it 


224  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

as  other  scientific  and  philosophical  truth  has  been 
winnowed ;  it  is  just  the  preservation  and  handing  on 
of  which  you  speak  that  have  done  the  mischief.  And 
that  brings  me  to  my  fifth  proposition,  which  is  this : 
That  even  if  in  the  Church  the  individual  is  rightly 
subject  to  authority,  yet  neither  Pope  nor  Bishop  can 
claim  to  impose  upon  the  conscience  of  men  any  belief 
which  is  demonstrably  contrary  to  the  true  text  and 
meaning  of  Scripture,  or  to  facts  established  by  the 
human  reason.  How  carelessly  they  have  come  to  rely 
upon  the  brute  force  of  authority  may  be  seen  in  their 
treatment  of  the  Biblical  text — the  most  important 
evidence,  as  you  must  admit,  Edmund,  of  the  truth 
committed  to  their  keeping.  They  have  not  only  not 
purified  it,  they  have  handed  it  on  in  a  condition  more 
corrupt  than  that  in  which  they  received  it.  It  is  now 
full  of  errors,  some  of  grave  importance ;  but  they 
systematically  discourage  and  disable  the  scholars  who 
would  go  back  to  the  original  Greek,  and  restore  the 
older  and  better  supported  readings.  And  yet,  while 
they  are  so  careless  of  the  letter,  they  cling  with 
superstitious  and  ferocious  tenacity  to  every  syllable 
of  the  interpretation  and  the  doctrine  handed  down  to 
them  from  the  dark  ages,  and  shut  their  eyes  wilfully 
to  the  evident  progress  of  knowledge.  Truth,  they  say, 
cannot  change.  No,  but  it  may  be  sifted,  confirmed, 
and  completed ;  and  even  then  its  aspect  will  change 


SIX  PROPOSITIONS  225 

as  our  standpoint  changes.  In  this  last  hundred  years 
such  a  change  has  been  going  on  rapidly.  Man  has 
realized  that  'by  the  use  of  Nature  he  can  do  all 
things,'  and  he  has  set  himself  to  discover  and  conquer 
the  powers  of  the  material  world.  Look  at  the  inven- 
tions of  the  past  fifty  years — the  invention,  for 
instance,  of  paper,  of  explosives,  and  of  the  mariner's 
compass.  The  possibilities  involved  in  such  things 
as  these  are  incalculable;  but  the  Church  neither 
hears,  thinks,  nor  cares  until  the  work  is  done,  and 
then  it  steps  in  to  hinder  and  condemn  it — for  what  ? 
For  novitas !  And  no  wonder ;  for  where  there  is 
novelty  of  fact,  there  will  be  also  novelty  of  view." 

"Still,  said  Edmund,  "your  new  facts  and  your 
new  views  must  be  tested.  They  should  be  no  more 
exempt  from  examination  than  the  old  ones." 

"  I  will  tell  you,"  replied  Ealph,  with  scorn  in  his 
voice,  "  how  the  Church  does  the  testing.  I  will  give 
you  a  modern  example.  Here  is  this  new  book  of 
travels  by  the  fellow  who  calls  himself  Sir  John 
Mandeville.  Never  was  testing  more  needed ;  but 
I  have  just  heard  that  it  is  to  be  passed  entire  by  the 
Holy  See.  And  why  ?  Because  it  appears  to  tally  with 
some  fusty  old  map  of  the  world  which  the  Popes  have 
had  lying  by  them  for  centuries,  '  Appears/  I  say ;  and 
this  is  where  the  point  comes — if  these  holy  noodles 
had  but  looked  a  little  more  thoroughly,  they  would 


226  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

have  found  not  only  a  hundred  lies  and  stolen  stories  in 
the  book,  but  one  piece  of  truth  quite  fatal  to  their 
Mappa  Mundi.  The  traveller  says  that  it  is  possible, 
he  finds,  to  go  by  ship  all  about  the  world,  both  above 
and  beneath.  The  world,  in  fact,  is  now  proved  to  be 
not  flat,  but  round,  as  many  have  long  suspected,  and 
some  have  half-openly  maintained,  both  in  Oxford 
and  Paris.  Wait  till  the  Church  wakes  up  to  this, 
and  you  will  see  an  example  of  her  alternative  method 
of  testing  scientific  truth.  Her  officials  are  always 
the  same — at  least,  they  always  oscillate  between 
careless  ignorance  and  reckless  ignorance." 

"They  are  human,"  said  Edmund,  gently.  "I 
think  you  ask  more  of  men  than  men  can  give  you." 
"  No,"  retorted  Ralph;  "  I  ask  nothing  but  tolerance." 
"That  is  hardly  an  answer,"  said  Sir  Henry, 
arching  his  eyebrows  with  one  of  his  humorous  looks. 
"  But  seriously,"  he  continued,  "  if  you  will  let  an  old 
man  put  in  a  word,  I  think  these  very  well-drawn 
propositions  of  yours  have  led  us  a  little  away  from 
practical  considerations.  We  are  all  with  you,  Ealph, 
when  you  speak  of  truth  and  tolerance ;  but  common 
sense  will  not  allow  me  to  forget  two  things.  One  is 
that  the  Church,  perfect  or  imperfect,  is  one  of  the 
facts  of  the  world — one  of  the  largest  facts,  a  fact 
which  can  never  be  abolished  or  ignored.  It  does  not 
matter  how  or  why  this  is,  It  lies  somewhere  in  the 


SIX  PROPOSITIONS  227 

nature  of  things;  it  is  one  of  the  features  of  the 
landscape,  and  in  planning  the  battle  of  life  you  must 
take  it  into  account,  or  your  campaign  is  hopeless  from 
the  beginning.  The  other  thing  is  that  you  have 
carried  your  argument  beyond  the  point  which  is  of 
immediate  importance  to  us.  It  is  most  interesting 
to  hear  your  views  on  such  subjects ;  but  these  ques- 
tions of  science  and  dogma  are,  for  us,  outside  the 
argument.  We  have  only  to  consider  how  we  can  hope 
to  justify  our  position  if  we  support  you  when  you 
have  been  condemned  by  your  ecclesiastical  superior. 
We  are  not  directly  subject  to  him,  as  you  are.  We 
wish  to  maintain  our  freedom  as  laymen;  but  we 
cannot  let  ourselves  be  drawn  into  the  theological 
controversy.  Our  case  depends  entirely  on  our  keeping 
the  two  questions  separate.  You  must  see  that." 

"  I  see  what  you  mean,"  said  Ealph,  in  a  tone  of 
disappointment ;  "  but  you  are  cutting  me  short  at  the 
most  vital  point  of  all.  My  sixth  and  last  proposition 
deals  with  the  doctrine  of  Transubstantiation." 

Sir  Henry  inclined  his  head.  "  I  thought  it  might 
possibly  do  so,"  he  said,  with  courteous  gravity,  "  and 
I  have  no  doubt  that  it  is  well  worth  hearing  in  itself. 
But  even  if  I  were  not  so  incompetent  to  form  an 
opinion  upon  it,  I  must  still  keep  myself  at  present 
quite  clear  of  that  part  of  your  challenge.  Edmund, 
of  course,  is  in  a  different  position  here,  and  so  is 


228  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

Aubrey ;  they  may  discuss  anything  with  you.  But 
if  you  will  excuse  me,  I  will  ask  Stephen  to  give  me 
his  arm  as  far  as  the  house." 

He  rose  with  some  assistance,  laid  his  hand  for 
a  moment  kindly  on  Balph's  shoulder,  and  started 
down  the  hill,  leaning  on  Stephen. 

"  I  might  have  taken  Aubrey  instead  of  you,"  he 
said,  "but  she  has  a  quieting  effect  on  him;  and 
you  can  go  back  directly  if  you  would  care  to  hear  him 
out.  He  will  be  at  it  for  a  long  time  yet." 


XXXII 

QUICKLY  though  Stephen  returned,  he  found  that  he 
had  missed  Ealph's  sixth  proposition.  It  had  evidently 
been  stated  with  some  violence,  for  both  Aubrey  and 
Edmund  looked  troubled,  and  Edmund  was  speaking 
in  his  lowest  and  most  gentle  tones. 

"My  dear  Ealph,"  he  was  saying,  "you  cannot 
imagine  how  you  pain  me.  You  know  that  I  am  not 
bigoted  or  unsympathetic;  you  know  how  far  I  have 
gone  with  you  in  this  matter,  long  ago.  But  when  you 
abandon  your  own  lofty  and  spiritual  standpoint,  and 
threaten  to  meet  crude  materialism  with  still  cruder 
and  more  material  methods  of  disproof,  you  seem  to 
me — forgive  me  for  saying  it — you  seem  to  be  setting 
yourself  below  the  lowest  of  your  antagonists.  They 
err  in  understanding,  but  their  error,  however  grotesque, 
comes  in  its  origin  from  reverence;  you  would  err  in 
feeling,  and  no  vindication  of  your  senses  or  your 
intellect  could  make  up  to  you  for  that." 

"I  only  meet  them  on  their  own  ground,"  said 
Ealph.  "  They  allege  a  physical  change ;  I  propose  a 
physical  experiment." 

Edmund  shook  his  head.     "You  forget,"  he  said, 

229 


230  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

"  that  it  is  meeting  them  with  poisoned  weapons :  they 
could  inflict  nothing  on  you  comparable  to  the  mortal 
pain  they  must  suffer  at  your  hands.  And  there  is 
something  in  yourself  that  you  would  injure  too.  You 
know  that  there  is  a  mystery  here  beyond  the  reach 
of  any  material  proof.  Eemember  the  words  of  your 
own  champion,  Bacon.  You  could  accept  his  statement 
of  the  doctrine,  and  so  could  your  opponents.  Why 
not  be  content  with  that  ? " 

"  Bacon  is  not  my  champion  here,"  replied  Ealph ; 
"  on  this  side  he  was  as  blind  as  the  rest." 

"I  read  him  differently,"  said  Edmund,  "and  so 
did  you  once.  Eemember  how  he  expressly  says  that 
although  both  the  Human  and  the  Divine  Nature  are 
present  in  the  Sacrament,  yet  the  Human  Nature  is 
not  present  as  we  know  it  elsewhere.  It  is  in  itself, 
he  says,  a  thing  created;  but  it  there  transcends  the 
laws  which  govern  created  things,  and  exists  after  the 
manner  of  the  Divine  being,  and  not  of  the  material 
creature." 

Ealph  was  quite  unaffected  by  the  gentleness  and 
reverence  of  the  tone  in  which  Edmund  had  spoken.  His 
face  was  set,  and  his  voice  harsh  with  contentiousness. 

"  What  is  the  use,"  he  said,  "  of  all  these  mystical 
phrases,  when  he  follows  them  with  the  plain  state- 
ment that  the  Eeal  Presence  is  hidden  in  order  to  save 
our  stomachs  from  revolting  ? " 


A  HERETIC'S  THEOLOGY  23 

Edmund  turned  and  looked  at  Aubrey.  Her  face 
was  flaming,  but  there  was  no  sign  of  flinching  in  her 
eyes. 

"  Go  on,"  she  said  imperiously,  laying  her  hands  on 
Edmund's ;  "  you  must  answer." 

"Kalph  is  quite  right,"  he  said;  "there  are  words 
to  that  effect,  but  the  context  throws  a  different  light 
upon  them.  Both  the  Divine  and  the  Human  Nature, 
Bacon  says,  are  hidden  under  the  symbol,  because  our 
senses  could  not  bear  the  majesty  of  the  one  or  the 
reality  of  the  other.  He  does  not  mean  to  dogmatize 
about  the  exact  manner  in  which  we  should  otherwise 
have  had  to  face  that  reality.  What  he  does  say  is 
that  we  are  permitted  to  look  upon  it  in  the  Sacrament 
with  our  mental  vision  only.  In  the  same  way  he 
speaks  of  the  words  of  the  Mass  always  as  words 
of  the  heart,  as  well  as  words  of  the  mouth.  For 
him  there  is  nothing  mechanical  about  it ;  belief 
comes  foremost:  'To  gain  eternal  life  we  need  but 
have  faith  in  our  hearts  and  a  sentence  of  five 
words  upon  our  lips.'  And  by  '  eternal  life '  he  means 
not  a  mere  future  existence  in  another  world,  but  an 
immediate  union  with  the  Divine.  This  alone  would 
exclude  all  possibility  of  a  gross  material  interpretation ; 
for  he  says  that  we  are  so  fed  in  the  Sacrament  as  to 
become  that  upon  which  we  feed,  which  can  happen 
with  no  material  sustenance,  but  only  with  the 


232  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

spiritual :  '  By  partaking  of  the  Christ  we  become  each 
one  of  us  a  Christ.'  These  are  the  words,  remember, 
of  a  great  man  of  science;  will  they  not  satisfy  you 
too  ?  They  would  certainly  satisfy  the  Bishop." 

"  I  do  not  believe  it,"  replied  Ealph.  "  They  did 
not  satisfy  the  Pope :  Bacon  was  condemned." 

"For  his  view  of  the  heathen  philosophers,  not  of 
the  Christian  religion." 

"  Well,"  said  Kalph,  obstinately,  "  I  don't  care  what 
the  Bishop  may  think  of  him,  he  does  not  satisfy  me. 
You  cannot  get  over  the  fact  that  he  places  the  Eeal 
Presence  in  the  Host,  and  I  do  not.  There  is  a  wide 
gulf  between  us  there,  and  I  cannot  be  certain  I  am 
right  unless  I  use  my  own  words." 

"  I  should  have  thought,"  replied  Edmund,  "  that  in 
speaking  of  a  miracle  none  of  us  could  ever  be  certain 
that  he  was  right ;  and  least  of  all  a  man  of  science." 

"  Paradox  is  not  a  good  method  of  persuasion,"  said 
Ealph,  curtly. 

"No,"  replied  Edmund;  "but  consider  a  moment. 
Is  there  not  really  a  great  difference  between  the  mind 
that  seldom  sees  a  miracle  because  it  is  so  stored  with 
science,  and  the  mind  which  is  constitutionally  in- 
capable of  wonder?  The  truly  scientific  mind  may 
come  to  think  all  existence  miraculous ;  for  when 
we  have  made  all  the  easy  generalizations,  and  dis- 
covered all  the  proximate  causes,  we  begin  at  last  to 


A  HERETIC'S  THEOLOGY  233 

realize  the  depth  of  the  mystery  that  lies  behind 
them  all." 

"Then  leave  me  to  select  my  own  miracles.  I 
will  wonder  where  I  please,  and  not  at  the  bidding  of 
an  ignorant  Pope-made  prelate." 

"Be  fair,  Ralph,"  said  Edmund,  in  the  gentlest 
possible  tone  of  remonstrance.  "  It  was  not  the  Pope 
who  made  him  your  Bishop;  you  voluntarily  placed 
yourself  under  him  when  you  were  ordained." 

"  I  never  bound  myself — I  could  not  bind  myself — 
to  take  my  creed  from  him." 

"No,"  said  Edmund;  "our  beliefs  are  our  own ;  but 
we  have  bound  ourselves  to  obey.  We  think  as  we 
must ;  but  we  cannot  preach  what  we  are  forbidden  to 
preach." 

"Speak  for  yourself,"  cried  Ealph,  his  voice 
trembling  with  a  sudden  access  of  rage.  "  I  will  do  that 
and  more.  Let  every  Bishop  in  England  hunt  me  up 
and  down,  I  will  say  my  say.  I  make  my  appeal  to 
my  countrymen.  I  know  their  minds;  I  am  no 
intruded  foreigner,  no  half-bred  Burgundian,  but  an 
Englishman  of  the  right  Apostolic  succession,  by  which 
there  shall  never  be  wanting  men  duly  qualified  to 
serve  God  in  the  holy  office  of  heretic  while  the  world 
lasts.  Grossetete  is  gone,  and  Bacon,  and  Ockham; 
but  they  laid  their  hands  on  me,  as  I  have  laid  mine 
on  young  John  Wyclif.  He  shall  do  the  work  when  I 


234  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

am  gone ;  but  while  I  am  here  no  man  shall  take  my 
place  from  me.  As  for  my  lord  Bishop,  I  give  him 
a  Bishop's  answer,  'With  filial  piety  and  obedience  I 
disobey,  I  deny,  and  I  rebel ! ' " 

He  was  white  with  passion  as  he  shouted  his 
defiance;  but  this  time  Stephen  was  moved  by  his 
fierce  courage,  and  saw  nothing  in  his  face  to  shrink 
from.  Aubrey,  too,  he  could  see,  was  at  the  least 
divided  between  regret  and  admiration ;  but  Edmund's 
whole  figure  expressed  a  sadness  that  seemed  to  crush 
him,  as  if  he  bore  already  the  invisible  load  of  the 
misery  to  come.  As  they  all  rose  to  go  homewards 
he  passed  his  arm  through  Ealph's,  and  seemed  about 
to  speak.  But  he  was  silent  until  they  reached  the 
foot  of  the  slope ;  then  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  as  if  he 
almost  hoped  that  he  might  be  unheard — 

"  I  remember  the  words,  and  what  was  said  of  him 
who  uttered  them :  '  He  attacked  many ;  he  was 
attacked  by  most ;  and  he  knew  not  what  peace  was.' " 

"  So  be  it,"  said  Ealph. 


XXXIII 

IT  soon  became  evident  that  Kalph  and  Stephen  had 
taken  a  strong  liking  to  each  other.  For  the  next 
three  days  they  were  inseparable :  they  walked  together 
by  the  hour,  they  talked  incessantly  and  argued  in- 
terminably, and  still,  when  they  came  to  table,  chal- 
lenged each  other  as  eagerly  as  if  they  had  been  meeting 
again  after  a  separation  of  years.  It  surprised  Stephen 
to  find  that  he  was  far  from  agreeing 'with  Kalph  as 
completely  as  he  had  expected;  it  astonished  every 
one  else  to  hear  him  controverting  his  new  friend  a 
dozen  times  in  the  hour  without  once  bringing  down 
upon  himself  the  storm  which  a  chance  word  from 
others  had  so  often  provoked.  Frank,  rude,  even 
brutal,  Ralph  certainly  was  at  times ;  but  he  never 
again  fell  into  that  insensate  passion  of  rage,  and 
Stephen  thought  that  he  could  distinguish  the  cause 
of  this  seeming  inconsistency.  It  was  not  opposition 
that  maddened  Ealph ;  on  the  contrary,  he  loved  strife 
and  could  give  and  take  the  hardest  of  hard  knocks. 
But  the  mere  suspicion  of  an  unfair  advantage,  the 
faintest  hint  that  any  one  could  claim  to  use  force,  to 
bring  authority  to  bear,  to  crush  reason  by  the  weight 

235 


236  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

of  will,  would  turn  his  broad,  sunlike  smile  to  the 
scowl  of  a  wild  beast,  and  in  less  congenial  or  less 
tactful  company  would  have  once  more  let  loose  the 
savagery  of  his  under-nature.  In  Stephen  he  recognized 
something  of  a  kindred  spirit,  one  who  would  resent 
the  intrusion  of  force  on  his  own  side  as  quickly  as 
on  the  other,  and  was  by  nature  hostile  rather  than 
submissive  even  to  legitimate  authority.  Stephen, 
therefore,  might  say  what  he  pleased,  and  contradict 
without  hesitation.  He  certainly  tried  his  antagonist 
to  the  full,  for  he  attacked  Ealph  in  plain  terms  for 
want  of  feeling ;  asserting  with  a  great  deal  of  truth 
that  he  constantly  made  the  mistake  of  treating  human 
beings  as  automatons,  made  to  be  moved  by  uniform 
springs,  and  worthless  or  defective  in  proportion  as 
their  actions  were  derived  from  affection  or  choice 
rather  than  from  the  steel  coil  of  reason. 

"A  fault  on  the  right  side,"  Ealph  shouted,  in 
reply  to  this  charge.  "  Get  men  to  show  some  feeling 
for  my  science,  and  then  my  science  shall  take  some 
account  of  their  feelings." 

Stephen  shook  his  head.  "  I  am  all  for  science,"  he 
said,  "  but  its  professors  are  but  human.  The  time  will 
come  when  they  will  set  up  an  orthodoxy  of  their  own, 
and  make  a  church  whose  bishops  will  interdict 
religion." 

He  was   astonished   at    the   effect  of   his   words. 


BALPH  DEPARTS  237 

Ralph  was  not  only  silenced  but  extinguished  by  them, 
and  Stephen  afterwards  saw  him  more  than  once  glanc- 
ing curiously  in  his  direction,  as  if  troubled  with  a 
question  which  he  did  not  like  to  ask  in  words.  He 
was  himself,  however,  too  preoccupied  to  think  more 
of  it,  for  Edmund  had  made  over  to  him  the  task  of 
persuading  Ealph  to  go  to  Chudleigh  and  lay  his  case 
before  the  Bishop  in  a  reasonable  manner.  He  had 
very  little  expectation  of  being  able  to  do  this,  for 
Ealph  shied  violently  whenever  he  was  led  within 
sight  of  the  proposal,  and  openly  accused  the  Marlands 
of  thinking  more  of  their  own  position  than  of  the 
cause  of  truth.  Stephen  could,  and  did,  meet  this 
easily  enough,  for  it  was  only  their  desire  to  help 
Ealph  that  brought  them  into  the  question  at  all; 
but  he  was  not  quite  on  firm  ground,  for  he  felt  that 
he  was  not  at  one  with  the  Marlands  in  their  view 
of  Ealph's  relation  to  the  Bishop.  They  persistently 
ignored — as,  indeed,  did  Ealph  himself — the  fact  that 
this  was  not  the  simplest  case  of  insubordination — 
the  case  of  a  parish  priest  disobeying  his  ordinary. 
Ealph  had  resigned  his  living  many  years  ago,  and 
had  never  again  sought  preferment  in  the  diocese, 
though  he  had  passed  much  of  his  time  in  it  for  family 
reasons.  He  seemed,  therefore,  to  Stephen  to  be  in 
the  position  of  the  many  University  tutors  who  are 
but  nominally  in  holy  orders,  and  who  for  practical 


238  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

purposes    owe   no    allegiance    to    any    ecclesiastical 
superior. 

"No,  no,"  said  Sir  Henry,  when  the  point  was 
made  clear  to  him  ;  "  there  is  nothing  in  that.  Once  a 
priest,  always  a  priest ;  a  man  cannot  unfrock  himself." 

"  But  suppose  the  Church  unfrocks  him  ?  "  asked 
Stephen. 

"  Then  all  is  over.  There  is  nothing  left  for  him 
in  this  world  but  the  life  of  an  outlaw — precarious, 
base,  and  short.  Only  his  friends  can  save  Ealph  from 
that  now — if  he  would  but  see  it,  and  do  something 
to  help." 

But  the  days  went  by,  and  Ealph  gave  no  sign  of 
yielding.  Edmund,  however,  showed  a  patience  and 
forethought  which  moved  Stephen's  admiration.  He 
could  not  compel  Ealph,  but  he  could  be  ready,  if  he 
should  succeed  in  persuading  him  even  at  the  last 
moment.  He  had  already  exchanged  his  duty  with 
John  Perrot,  the  young  Eector  of  Gardenleigh,  who 
had  been  at  Portishead  for  over  a  week  now :  the  time 
was  extended  by  a  letter  sent  off  without  Ealph's 
knowledge,  and  a  secret  arrangement  was  also  made 
with  the  neighbouring  parson  of  Croonington,  by  which 
Edmund  was  set  free  to  go  away,  if  necessary,  at  a 
moment's  notice;  for  he  meant  to  do  all  that  was 
possible  not  only  to  bring  about  the  interview,  but  to, 
make  it  a  success. 


RALPH  DEPARTS  239 

Sunday  had  come  and  gone,  and  Stephen,  when  at  the 
end  of  the  day  he  found  himself  alone  in  his  own  room, 
remembered  that  there  was  now  but  a  week  left  of  the 
time  conceded  by  the  Bishop.  The  thought  kept  him 
long  awake.  In  the  keenness  of  his  new  friendship, 
and  his  burning  interest  in  Ealph's  quarrel  with 
authority,  he  had  for  the  time  almost  ceased  to  trouble 
himself  about  his  own  situation.  He  could  never  rest 
till  he  had  recovered  the  hopes  which  he  had  lost ;  but 
in  that  direction  all  the  ways  were  wrapped  in  im- 
penetrable darkness.  In  the  mean  time,  here  was  a 
path  which  lay  clear  before  him,  and  he  followed  it 
with  eagerness.  In  the  old  life  Aubrey  had  been  for 
him  the  one  real  figure  among  a  crowd  of  phantoms. 
If  the  Aubrey  of  this  world  was  herself  a  phantom,  at 
any  rate  she  had  brought  him  among  very  real  people, 
and  set  him  on  work  more  real  than  any  he  had  ever 
taken  in  hand  before. 

His  feeling  had  changed  a  good  deal  in  these  four 
days.  He  had  begun  as  a  partisan  of  Ealph's  cause; 
he  had  ended  as  a  friend  of  the  man  himself,  and  this 
involved  a  different  view  of  the  course  to  be  adopted. 
The  main  point  was  not  so  much  to  defeat  the  Bishop 
as  to  save  Ealph;  the  Marlands  were  right  after  all. 
What  could  be  Ealph's  own  object  in  dashing  himself 
to  pieces  against  a  rock  ?  If  he  perished,  as  he  must, 
would  not  his  work  die  with  him  ?  Was  it  not  to  the 


240  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

slow,  undermining  influence  of  time  that  he  should 
trust,  rather  than  to  a  direct  attack,  however  forcible  ? 
The  future  was  safe ;  Grandison  was  a  sterile  tree,  his 
theories  alien  to  the  soil  of  England,  where  Ealph's 
mustard-seed  of  science  would  one  day  strike  root  and 
spring  up  like  a  forest. 

So  he  reasoned  with  himself  as  he  lay  there  in  the 
warm,  dark  summer  night.  It  was  midnight,  and  sleep 
was  still  far  from  him.  Through  the  open  window 
came  the  rapturous  shouting  of  the  owls  as  they  swept 
softly  through  the  mazes  of  their  ghostly  chase ;  now 
and  again  from  the  reed-beds  by  the  lake  a  low,  guttural 
sound  was  heard  across  the  still  water,  as  if  one  among 
the  host  of  waterfowl  were  crying  in  his  sleep;  then 
for  a  time  all  fell  once  more  to  silence.  But  Stephen 
had  a  feeling  that  for  him  the  silence  was  not  that  of 
solitude.  Somewhere  in  the  house,  he  was  certain,  his 
wakefulness  was  shared  by  another  watcher,  and  he 
waited,  with  every  sense  alert  and  pulse  quickening, 
to  catch  the  sound  which  should  put  an  end  to  his 
suspense. 

No  sound  came ;  but  in  the  silence  and  the  darkness 
he  became  aware,  by  some  other  channel  than  the 
everyday  senses,  that  the  door  of  his  room  was  opening 
— that  it  had  opened  wide,  and  that  he  was  no  longer 
alone.  He  seemed  to  himself  to  have  asked  again  and 
again,  "  Who  is  it  ?  "  but  he  knew  also  that  he  had  not 


BALPH  DEPARTS  241 

spoken,  and  the  time  of  waiting  was  surely  longer  than 
his  whole  life.  Then  suddenly  a  quiet  voice,  that 
seemed  to  part  the  silence  without  breaking  it,  came 
out  of  the  darkness  close  to  him. 

"  Are  you  awake,  Stephen  ?  " 

The  strain  was  loosened  in  a  moment;  the  blood 
which  had  stood  still  in  his  choking  veins  flowed  with 
a  warm  rush  through  his  whole  body,  and  his  throat 
relaxed. 

"  Is  that  you,  Ealph  ? "  he  said  in  a  calm,  low 
voice  that  hardly  seemed  his  own.  "  What  is  it  ?  " 

Ealph  drew  the  curtain  that  darkened  the  window, 
and  Stephen  saw  that  the  night  was  not  so  black  as  it 
had  been  an  hour  ago ;  the  sky  was  no  longer  overcast, 
and  the  moon  was  shining.  Ralph  closed  the  door 
and  came  and  sat  down  on  the  side  of  the  bed. 

"  Stephen,"  he  said,  "  I  am  going  to  Chudleigh." 

At  any  other  time  Stephen  would  have  been 
surprised  into  an  exclamation;  but  he  was  saved  by 
the  quick  perception  and  control  which  the  brain 
acquires  in  the  hours  of  darkness;  he  knew  that  he 
must  wait  to  hear  what  this  decision  meant 

"Yes,  I  am  going,"  Ralph  continued;  "but  to 
what  end  ?  Have  you  thought  of  that  ?  " 

"  I  have  thought  of  nothing  else  for  an  hour 
past." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Ralph  ;  "  I  knew  that.  But  you 

R 


242  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

think,  like   the  others,  that   I   ought    to    save   my 
bones." 

They  were  both  silent,  as  if  they  could  wrestle  it 
out  in  their  thoughts  without  words.  But  when  Kalph 
spoke  again,  he  had  changed  his  grip  unexpectedly, 
and  took  Stephen  by  surprise. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said,  "  do  you  know,  or  are  you  only 
guessing,  like  the  rest  of  us  ? " 

"  Do  I  know  what  ? "  asked  Stephen ;  but  he  knew 
the  answer  already. 

"  I  have  heard  in  the  North,"  said  Ealph,  "  of  men 
with  a  second  sight,  which  is  more  penetrating  than 
our  deepest  wisdom;  since  it  is  unknown  in  the 
Church,  there  may  be  something  more  in  it  than 
superstition.  In  your  own  opinion  you  seem  to  have 
some  such  gift ;  every  day  you  speak  of  things  to  come 
as  if  you  saw  them.  I  do  not  ask  you  for  your  secret, 
but  if  you  know  what  is  hidden  from  me,  you  can  give 
me  the  clue  to  my  labyrinth." 

For  a  moment  Stephen  thought  he  could  speak  out : 
truth,  that  we  clothe  so  carefully  by  day,  may  strip 
herself  at  midnight.  But  as  he  saw  his  chance  he  saw 
the  danger  too,  and  the  uselessness  of  incurring  it.  If 
he  were  not  believed  his  influence  would  be  gone,  and 
in  any  case  it  was  only  the  distant  future  that  he 
knew ;  of  Kalph's  own  fortunes  he  could  foretell 
nothing. 


RALPH  DEPARTS  243 

"I  am  confident,"  he  said;  "but  I  claim  only  to 
know  as  you  know — by  my  reason." 

"  That  is  not  the  whole  truth,"  said  Kalph.  "  The 
confidence  I  speak  of  did  not  come  from  reason :  you 
did  not  assert  yourself,  you  forgot  yourself."  Then, 
as  no  answer  followed,  he  added  in  a  low,  urgent  tone, 
utterly  unlike  his  everyday  voice,  "Stephen,  do  not 
play  with  me ;  I  am  dare-devil  enough  at  times,  but  life 
is  as  much  to  me  as  to  any  one — more,  a  hundred  times 
more,  for  I  verily  believe  that  I  carry  Man  and  his 
fortunes  in  this  storm." 

In  the  growing  light  Stephen  could  see  him  bending 
forward  with  an  earnestness  that  smote  him  to  the 
heart.  How  idle,  how  academic  and  hollow  seemed 
the  life  from  which  he  had  come,  to  which  he  would 
one  day  return.  It  was  here  in  the  backwoods  of  time 
that  the  real  work  of  men  was  going  forward,  with 
sweat  of  the  brow  and  blistering  of  hands,  with  action 
and  agony  and  endurance  in  place  of  talk  and  specula- 
tion. How  poor  a  thing  was  he,  cheering  on  the  battle 
that  for  him  was  already  a  victory,  compared  with  this 
man  who  was  girding  himself  to  rush  blindly  upon  the 
spears.  How  he  longed  to  help  him;  but  though  the 
whole  great  saga  lay  open  before  him,  he  knew  that 
Ralph's  own  fate  was  nowhere  upon  the  five  hundred 
pages  he  had  read  of  it,  and  he  groaned  inwardly,  for 
it  was  of  Ralph  that  he  was  thinking  first. 


244  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

"  My  dear  fellow/'  he  said,  "  I  am  not  playing  with 
you ;  you  must  not  think  it.  I  have  a  sight  of  some 
things  that  this  generation  cannot  see,  but  it  does  not 
show  me  what  you  ask." 

"I  ask  only  this,"  said  Ealph:  "shall  I  live  or 
die?" 

"  You  are  a  man,"  replied  Stephen,  "  and  it  needs 
no  gift  to  know  that  every  man  must  die.  But  your 
cause  will  be  living  five  centuries  from  now  as  it  is 
living  to-day,  and  far  more  strongly.  Is  not  that 
enough  ? " 

"  Enough  ? "  cried  Ealph,  starting  up,  "  What  more 
could  I  have  asked  ?  " 

"  I  was  thinking,"  said  Stephen,  lamely,  "  of  your 
own  life,  and  the  survival  of  your  name." 

"  My  name ! "  said  Ealph,  with  a  touch  of  scorn 
mixed  with  the  triumph  in  his  tone.  "What  is  my 
name  to  me  five  hundred  years  from  now  ?  You  may 
name  the  river  what  you  will,  if  only  I  may  know  that 
it  will  reach  the  sea." 

"  You  need  not  fear,"  said  Stephen ;  "  it  will  reach 
the  sea." 

"  That  is  my  life,  then,"  said  Ealph ;  "  you  have 
answered  me  after  all.  Good  night." 

It  was  not  till  he  had  been  gone  some  time  that 
Stephen  remembered  the  advice  he  had  intended  to 
press  upon  him.  In  what  had  passed  between  them 


BALPH  DEPARTS  245 

there  had   been  no  talk  of  prudence  or  moderation ; 
that  must  be  for  to-morrow. 

But  when  he  woke  it  was  already  too  late ;  Kalph 
had  clamoured  to  be  off  at  daybreak,  and  Edmund  had 
not  ventured  to  oppose  him. 


XXXIV 

THE  week  passed  slowly  and  quietly ;  every  one  spoke 
of  hopes,  and  no  one  of  misgivings.  But  probably  it 
was  no  great  surprise  to  any  one  when,  on  Saturday 
evening,  as  they  sat  at  supper,  the  door  opened  silently 
and  Edmund  took  his  place  by  his  mother  with  an  air 
of  dejection  for  which  no  fatigue  could  be  accountable. 
The  Bishop,  he  said,  had  been  ill.  They  had  reached 
Chudleigh  at  noon  on  Wednesday,  only  to  be  told  that 
his  lordship,  though  better  of  his  fever,  could  see  no 
one  for  some  time  to  come.  A  letter  would  be  delivered 
to  him  if  desired,  but  not  at  once.  In  short,  the 
expedition  had  failed. 

"You  left  a  letter,  of  course?"  asked  Sir  Henry, 
and  hearing  that  this  had  been  done,  he  brightened 
considerably.  "  After  all,  Edmund,"  he  said,  "  the 
position  is  saved  for  the  time  being.  Our  side  is  not 
in  fault.  There  is  no  reason  why  the  meeting  should 
not  come  off  later." 

Edmund  did  not  raise  his  eyes  from  the  table. 
"  I  hope  it  may,"  he  said ;  and  his  father,  seeing  that 
there  was  more  behind,  lifted  his  eyebrows  and  was 
silent. 

246 


EDMUND  RETURNS  247 

The  ladies  took  up  the  burden  of  conversation  until 
the  meal  was  over;  then,  when  the  servants  had  left 
the  room,  there  was  an  embarrassed  pause,  every  one 
waiting  anxiously  for  Edmund  to  speak. 

"  You  have  not  told  us  yet  where  Ealph  has  gone," 
said  Lady  Marland  at  last. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  Edmund,  wearily ;  "  he  is  a 
hard  man  to  help.  It  is  almost  too  late  to  hope  the 
Bishop  will  ever  see  him  now ;  too  late,  perhaps,  even 
to  wish  it." 

"What  has  happened?"  asked  Stephen,  with  a 
sinking  heart. 

"  I  will  tell  you,"  replied  Edmund ;  "  perhaps  you 
will  see  it  less  gloomily  than  I  do."  He  drew  himself 
up  in  his  chair,  and  looked  in  his  self-forgetful  way 
straight  into  his  father's  face  as  he  told  his  story. 
"  We  got  on  well,"  he  said,  "  until  we  reached  Exeter. 
There  we  heard  of  the  Bishop's  illness.  I  was  afraid 
Ealph  would  take  the  opportunity  to  cry  off  ..." 

Stephen  shook  his  head. 

"No,"  continued  Edmund;  "he  insisted,  on  the 
contrary,  that  the  illness  was  feigned  in  order  to  avoid 
the  interview,  and  that  his  own  policy  was  to  force 
himself  upon  the  Bishop.  Happily,  this  was  im- 
possible, and  before  noon  we  were  on  our  way  back 
to  Exeter.  I  asked  him  to  come  on  here  with  me,  and 
he  seemed  inclined  to  think  of  it.  We  decided  to  stay 


248  THE  OLD  COUNTKY 

one  more  night  in  Exeter,  and  I  hoped  to  get  him  away 
next  morning.  After  dinner  we  went  to  vespers  in  the 
cathedral ;  the  nave  has  been  finished  since  I  was  last 
there,  and  the  music,  as  it  soared  up  and  chimed  under 
the  stillness  of  those  great  arches,  seemed  to  me  the 
most  wonderful  thing  I  had  ever  known  in  my  life, 
and  the  nearest  to  the  heart  of  human  wisdom." 

"  The  wisdom  of  the  Psalms  is  Divine,  not  human," 
said  Lady  Marland. 

Stephen  had  scarcely  time  to  feel  the  jar.  Aubrey 
was  already  stilling  it  as  no  one  else  could  have  done. 

"No,  dearest,"  she . said,  "Edmund  is  right.  The 
music  of  chanting  is  all  human  ;  it  is  the  sound  of  the 
troubles  and  hopes  of  time  going  up  into  eternity  and 
dying  away  under  the  roof  of  heaven." 

"The  child's  right,"  said  Sir  Henry,  and  Stephen 
thought  so  too. 

"  When  the  music  ended,"  Edmund  continued,  "  I 
found  that  Ealph  had  gone  without  my  knowing  it. 
When  I  came  out  of  the  west  door,  there  he  was  on  the 
upper  side  of  the  street,  standing  on  a  bench  and 
preaching  wildly  to  a  crowd  of  rustics  and  idlers. 
Before  I  could  reach  the  place,  I  felt  myself  pushed 
roughly  aside,  and  a  posse  of  monks  rushed  past  me 
into  the  crowd  and  made  for  Ealph.  He  was  forced 
from  his  bench;  but  the  monks  were  evidently  un- 
popular, and  the  street  was  filled  in  a  moment  with  a 


EDMUND  RETURNS  249 

mob  who  hoisted  Ralph  on  their  shoulders  and  drove 
his  assailants  off  the  ground  with  shouting  and  cheer- 
ing that  could  be  heard  a  mile  away.  Since  that 
moment  I  have  seen  nothing  more  of  him,  I  inquired, 
as  widely  as  I  dared,  what  had  become  of  him,  and  I 
was  able  to  make  sure  that  he  had  left  Exeter  before 
night — they  said  he  had  gone  westward,  probably  into 
Cornwall.  Could  anything  be  more  disastrous  ?  " 

"Nothing  could  possibly  be  more  selfish,"  said 
Lady  Marland,  severely. 

Aubrey  looked  at  Stephen  as  if  she  expected  some- 
thing from  him. 

"  I  feel  sure  that  you  are  mistaken  there,"  he  said 
to  Lady  Marland.  "  I  had  some  talk  with  him  the  night 
before  he  left,  and  he  certainly  was  not  thinking  of  his 
own  interests." 

"  He  certainly  was  not  thinking  of  ours,"  remarked 
Sir  Henry,  in  a  tone  of  unusual  bitterness. 

Stephen  felt  rebuked,  but  an  approving  look  from 
Aubrey  did  something  to  redress  the  injustice. 

"  And  what  are  you  going  to  do  now  ? "  he  said  to 
Edmund. 

"  Go  back  to  my  work,  and  wait  for  daylight,"  he 
replied. 

"  Eight ! "  exclaimed  Stephen,  and  he  looked  as  if 
he  would  have  said  more,  but  Sir  Henry  stopped  him. 

"  You  will  not  leave  us  too  ? "  he  said  in  a  tone 


250  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

between  anxiety  and  reproach — "  such  a  broken-kneed 
old  pair." 

Stephen  looked  at  the  worn,  sad,  indomitable  face, 
where  humour  still  flew  like  a  flag  above  the  ruins, 
and  his  heart  pledged  him  without  authority. 

"  Leave  you  ?  "  he  cried ;  "  not  while  I  can  help 
you,"  and  for  the  moment  he  felt  strong  enough  to 
bear  it  out. 

Then,  like  a  stunning  blow  came  the  realization 
of  what  his  promise  involved,  and  through  the  con- 
fusion he  heard  Lady  Marland's  high  little  chirp  of 
satisfaction. 

"  Thank  you,  Stephen,"  she  said ;  "  that  is  just  what 
I  should  have  expected  of  you." 

On  the  following  Monday  Edmund  left  for  Portis- 
head. 


XXXV 

Now  that  alarms  and  conflicts  no  longer  urged  him  to 
activity,  Stephen  passed  day  by  day  more  completely 
under  the  spell  of  the  warm,  heavy  west-country  air — 
a  spell  which  from  late  June  till  early  September  lies 
upon  the  valleys  of  Somerset  with  a  dreamy  enchant- 
ment that  is  almost  oppressive.  Being  himself  of 
Midland  descent,  he  had  not  inherited  that  immunity 
against  the  softening  influence  of  climate,  or  that  un- 
alterable restlessness  of  energy  and  imagination,  which 
have  carried  the  glory  of  the  West  over  the  world,  and 
which  he  had  lately  seen  so  strenuously  exemplified 
in  Ralph  Tremur.  His  mind,  it  is  true,  continued  to 
move,  but  it  moved  more  slowly  and  within  limits :  it 
was  no  Devonshire  stream  rushing  and  sparkling  among 
rocks,  but  a  quiet  and  rather  dull  river,  flowing  through 
tame  pastures,  and  never  gathering  volume  enough  to 
break  its  invisible  bounds. 

To  himself  his  powerlessness  was  sufficiently  proved 
by  his  continued  inability  to  grapple  with  the  problem 
of  Aubrey's  identity.  With  a  slow  calm  and  a  detach- 
ment very  unlike  his  old  self,  he  marshalled  on  one 
side  and  the  other  the  few  facts  that  lay  within  his 

251 


252  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

immediate  reach;  but  though  he  resolved  again  and 
again  to  press  for  more  decisive  evidence,  to  thrash  the 
question  boldly  out  as  he  might  have  done  that  first 
morning  upon  the  terrace,  he  found  invariably,  when 
the  moment  came,  that  he  was  no  nearer  to  carrying 
out  his  resolution :  he  seemed  rather  to  be  further  from 
it ;  more  tongue-tied  by  a  shyness  which  he  could  not 
understand.  He  was  learning  for  the  first  time  that 
delicacy  is  no  late  refinement,  but  one  of  the  first  and 
strongest  instincts  of  the  mind  of  man :  poetry,  religion, 
and  love,  his  chief  concerns,  are  the  last  upon  which  he 
can  bring  himself  to  speak  freely,  and  perhaps  the  only 
ones  he  will  never  deal  with  in  plain,  square  speech. 
For  a  bargain,  a  quarrel,  a  lie,  he  may  possibly  come  to 
use  direct  statement  and  words  of  one  syllable :  but  for 
the  things  which  lie  nearest  to  his  beating  heart  there 
must  be  images  and  tropes,  or  an  approach  by  zigzags, 
veiled  and  stealthy  past  the  onlooker's  comprehension, 
and  to  the  last  moment  at  the  mercy  of  unreasonable 
panic. 

For  Stephen,  in  his  present  situation,  plain  speaking 
was  doubly  hard.  He  had  failed  to  tell  his  story  even 
to  Ealph,  who  seemed  upon  the  verge  of  guessing  it 
unaided ;  how,  then,  could  he  ever  succeed  in  forcing  it 
upon  so  unprepared  a  listener  as  Aubrey?  Yet  the 
case  was  urgent ;  none  the  less  so  because  he  had  no 
immediate  limit  of  time  before  him ;  for  since  he  was 


EDEN  VALE  253 

apparently  to  spend  his  days  for  the  present  in  close 
companionship  with  her,  he  must  choose  his  direction 
and  strike  out  for  it,  or  he  might  be  carried  down  by 
eddies  and  undercurrents,  of  which  he  knew  nothing. 
There  is,  he  dimly  perceived,  only  one  thing  certain 
about  the  relations  of  any  man  and  any  woman,  and 
that  is  that  they  will  never  remain  the  same  for  any 
length  of  time. 

His  escape  from  this  difficulty  came  about  in  a 
manner  which  was  unexpected  but  not  unnatural, 
though  it  was  long  before  the  whole  tangle  was  un- 
ravelled. 

On  the  third  morning  after  Edmund's  departure, 
Sir  Henry  asked  at  breakfast  how  the  day  was  to  be 
spent. 

"  There  is  a  little  service  to-day,"  said  Lady  Mar- 
land ;  "  it  is  the  Translation  of  King  Edward.  I  shall 
go  to  church ;  I  hope  every  one  will  go  to  church." 

She  looked  at  Stephen,  who  replied  without  enthu- 
siasm that  he  would  certainly  come. 

"  It  is  also  Midsummer  Eve,"  said  Aubrey  to  him. 
"  How  are  you  going  to  keep  that  ? " 

Stephen  replied  that  he  had  never  kept  Midsummer 
Eve,  and  knew  no  way  of  doing  so. 

"  What !  "  cried  Aubrey.  "  Have  you  never  looked 
for  the  way  to  Fairyland  ?  " 

He  smiled  a  little  bitterly.     "  I  thought  I   had 


254  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

found  it  once,"  he  said,  "but  some  one  misled  me, 
after  all." 

"  Would  you  like  to  try  again  ? "  she  asked,  with 
bright  eyes  full  of  a  childish  playfulness.  They  made 
his  heart  ache,  but  there  was  no  resisting  them. 

So  these  two  started  together  towards  the  cool  of 
the  day,  when  the  sun  was  westering,  in  a  direction 
that  was  new  to  Stephen  almost  from  the  first. 

They  left  the  park  by  a  stile  below  the  lodge  where 
he  had  come  with  Edmund  to  meet  the  Bishop,  crossed 
the  road  where  it  passes  through  the  hamlet  of  Lower 
Croonington,  and  found  themselves  at  the  entrance  of 
the  little  valley  through  which  the  river  Sel  winds 
quietly  between  two  high  tablelands  of  green  pasture. 
From  the  upper  level  the  ground  falls  steeply  to  the 
water  meadows,  which  lie  one  beyond  another  in  the 
folds  of  the  stream :  on  the  further  bank  are  orchards, 
a  cottage  or  two,  and  an  ancient  mill ;  the  space  on  the 
near  side  is  narrower,  and  shut  mysteriously  in  by  a 
succession  of  high  hedges  and  by  the  long,  undulating 
line  of  alders  which  marks  the  river's  course.  In  each 
great  hedge,  as  it  comes  steeply  down  to  the  foot  of  the 
hill,  there  is  a  gate  at  the  lowest  and  narrowest  point ; 
and  when  Stephen  and  Aubrey  passed  through  these 
gates  one  after  another,  and  saw  before  them  each  time 
a  yet  more  remote  and  bowery  meadow  sleeping  under 
the  golden  stillness  of  the  evening,  it  was  as  though 


EDEN  VALE  255 

they  were  retracing  the  path  by  which  they  had  come 
so  far  from  childhood,  and  wandering  further  moment 
by  moment  back  into  the  land  where  people  and  facts 
are  so  small,  and  colours,  songs,  and  fancies  so  abundant 
and  so  magically  powerful. 

"This  is  the  end  of  Eden  Vale,"  said  Aubrey,  as 
they  came  towards  the  last  of  the  great  hedges,  beyond 
which  the  valley  widens,  and  the  steep  pitch  of  the 
bank  upon  their  left  melted  away  into  a  long  and  gentle 
slope. 

"  And  who  named  it  Eden  Vale  ? "  asked  Stephen, 
looking  at  her. 

"  Not  I,"  she  said,  almost  indignantly ;  "  how  could 
you  think  it  ? " 

"  It  is  a  charming  name,"  he  said  in  self-defence, 
"  and  a  right  name." 

"  It  would  not  be  a  right  name,"  she  replied,  "  if  it 
were  only  an  invention  of  mine." 

"Forgive  me,"  he  said;  "I  have  offended,  but  I  do 
not  know  how." 

She  reddened,  and  was  silent  for  a  moment ;  then 
looked  up  again  at  him  with  clear,  frank  eyes  that 
seemed  determined  to  be  understood. 

H I  love  this  country,"  she  said ;  "  I  love  it  as  I  love 
nothing  else  in  life.  It  is  to  me  everything  that  men 
have  ever  loved — a  mother,  a  nurse,  a  queen,  a  lover, 
and  something  greater  and  more  sacred  still.  There  is 


256  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

not  one  look  of  it  that  I  shall  ever  forget  or  cease  to 
long  for,  and  I  would  as  soon  kill  a  friend  as  change 
the  name  of  the  smallest  of  its  fields." 

Her  voice  quivered  and  rang  in  Stephen's  memory  : 
this  was  surely  the  music  that  for  him  could  have  no 
counterpart.  But  it  was  still  beyond  his  power  to 
speak  of  that. 

"I  understand,"  he  said,  "but  I  had  almost  for- 
gotten that  patriotism  could  be  so  intense  and  yet  so 
local." 

"  If  you  forget  that,"  she  replied,  "  you  forget  all. 
Patriotism  has  its  own  high  spiritual  thoughts ;  but  it 
has  a  body  too — very  earth  of  very  earth,  born  of  time 
and  the  land,  and  never  to  be  found  or  made ;  it  is  as 
human  as  our  other  passions,  instinctive  and  deep  and 
unreasonable,  and  as  hot  as  the  blood  by  which  we 
live." 

Stephen  remembered  how  the  white  cliffs  had 
stirred  his  pulse  against  his  own  will. 

"  I  have  been  long  away,"  he  said,  "  but  I  know 
you  are  right." 

"You  must  come  back  to  it,"  said  Aubrey,  in  a 
more  matter-of-fact  tone.  "  You  will  have  no  difficulty 
there ;  it  can  no  more  be  lost  than  acquired.  But 
now,"  she  continued,  returning  lightly  to  her  old  serious 
playfulness,  "  we  have  come  to  fairyland  itself." 

She  pointed  through  the  last  gate,  and  he  saw  before 


EDEN  VALE  257 

him  a  field  unlike  any  of  those  through  which  they  had 
yet  come.  It  rose  on  the  left  very  gradually  to  the 
far-receding  crest  of  the  hill,  and  in  its  upper  part  was 
studded  with  great  oaks,  now  casting  enormous  shadows 
across  the  slope ;  but  it  was  the  lower  stretch,  where  it 
ran  level  to  the  riverside,  upon  which  Stephen  and 
Aubrey  were  now  entering,  and  it  was  this  that  gave 
the  place  its  curious  distinction.  Here,  as  in  the  field 
before  it,  the  deep  green  grass  was  thickly  set  with 
rushes,  but  in  this  place  alone  the  rushes  were  of  a  pale 
and  bluish  tinge,  and  completely  changed  the  colour  of 
the  field. 

Aubrey  stooped  and  gathered  a  handful  of  the  fine 
smooth  stems. 

"  Look,"  she  said,  handing  them  to  Stephen :  "  slim 
and  pointed  every  one ;  and  you  may  come  here  when 
you  will,  at  any  time  of  the  year,  you  will  never  find 
them  different.  When  all  other  rushes  are  brown  and 
thick  with  flower,  these  are  always  slender  and  blue- 
green,  as  you  see  them  now:  they  are  the  true  fairy 
rushes,  of  which  the  Little  People  make  their  lances, 
and  their  colour  is  so  pale,  because  they  sow  them  by 
moonlight  instead  of  by  day." 

"  On  Midsummer  Eve  ? "  he  asked. 

"  No,"  she  replied  gravely,  as  if  to  a  child,  "  on 
Midsummer  Eve  we  gather  them,  those  of  us  who  are 
wise  ;  but  every  one  must  gather  his  own,"  she  added, 

s 


258  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

taking  back  the  bunch  she  had  given  to  Stephen,  and 
pointing  to  the  ground  before  him. 

He  stooped  obediently  and  picked  an  ample  hand- 
ful ;  they  had  to  be  taken  one  by  one,  and  he  had  time 
for  many  thoughts  as  he  gathered  them.  When  he  rose 
at  last  and  looked  up,  he  met  the  low  rays  of  the  setting 
sun.  For  a  moment  he  was  dazzled  and  closed  his  eyes ; 
when  he  opened  them  again  he  found  himself  alone. 
He  turned  quickly  and  looked  in  every  direction  round 
the  field ;  but  it  was  empty,  and  now  it  seemed  to  be 
far  wider  and  more  lonely  than  he  had  thought.  The 
great  oaks  were  a  long,  long  way  up  the  hill,  the  elms 
in  the  hedge  opposite  stretched  out  enormous  shadows 
towards  him,  the  gate  by  which  he  had  come  he  saw 
across  an  infinite  space  of  misty  gold :  there  was  a  dead 
hush  everywhere,  except  in  the  alders  by  the  stream, 
where  a  single  robin  sat  eyeing  him  maliciously  between 
the  snatches  of  his  restless  and  elfish  little  song. 

The  sensation  of  loneliness  caught  him  suddenly,  as 
the  void  seems  to  snatch  a  falling  man:  there  was 
something  unnatural  in  this  sudden  and  utter  solitude. 
He  ran  breathlessly  to  the  gate;  whether  it  was  for 
himself  or  Aubrey  that  he  feared  he  hardly  knew,  but 
certainly  it  was  fear  that  drove  him.  When  he  saw 
her  once  more  the  fear  ceased,  but  the  mystery  remained, 
for  she  was  further  off  than  he  could  have  thought 
possible,  and  was  even  then  disappearing  through  the 


EDEN  VALE  259 

next  gate  on  ,fter  homeward  way  along  the  valley.  It 
was  some  time  before  he  overtook  her,  and  she  seemed 
to  greet  him  with  the  same  air  of  malicious  understand- 
ing as  the  elfin  robin  in  the  alder  tree. 

"  How  did  I  miss  you  ?  "  he  cried  ;  "  when  did  you 
leave  me  ? " 

"  It  is  easy  to  see  that  you  have  been  in  fairyland," 
he  said ;  "  one  is  always  alone  there ;   and   minutes 
seem  like  years,  and  years  like  minutes." 

"  There  is  certainly  something  uncanny  about  the 
place,"  he  replied,  "  but  it  is  very  beautiful." 

"  '  But '  is  the  wrong  word,"  she  said.  "  Of  course 
it  is  beautiful,  and  of  course  it  is  magical — haunted 
from  ages  beyond  memory  by  the  spirits  of  the  earth. 
You  will  see  to-night ; "  and  she  touched  the  rushes  in 
his  hand  with  those  which  she  was  carrying  herself. 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  smile,  but  met  a  face  more 
inscrutable  than  ever ;  if  he  could  read  anything  there, 
it  was  a  touch  of  kindly  scorn,  a  gentle  tolerance  of  a 
blindness  that  could  not  last.  So  far  as  it  was  blind- 
ness to  beauty  it  was  cured,  he  felt,  already ;  her  love 
of  the  land  he  understood  too ;  but  there  was  something 
more,  and  all  the  way  home  he  wondered,  while  they 
talked  of  other  things,  what  it  could  be  that  this  child 
knew  and  he  did  not. 


XXXVI 

STEPHEN  slept  that  night,  as  he  had  promised  to  do, 
with  the  rushes  beneath  his  pillow,  and  his  dreams  were 
long  and  vivid.  He  thought  that  he  was  newly  come 
to  Gardenleigh,  a  boy  eager  for  boyish  delights,  such  as 
he  had  enjoyed  there  more  than  once  before,  but  dis- 
appointed and  miserable  to  find  himself  alone.  Sir 
Henry  he  could  see,  and  Lady  Marland,  but  they  were 
grave  and  sad,  and  seemed  to  be  unaware  of  his  presence ; 
his  own  companions  were  gone,  and  he  felt  that  he 
could  not  rest  until  he  had  found  them.  He  looked  for 
them  everywhere,  and  though  he  could  not  overtake 
them,  he  seemed  to  be  everywhere  close  upon  their 
track — in  the  garden,  on  the  down,  by  the  lake,  and  in 
the  avenue  he  seemed  to  know  that  they  had  been 
before  him  by  only  a  few  minutes,  and  he  followed 
them  with  a  breathless  and  strangely  anxious  expectation 
through  woods  and  valleys  that  he  seemed  to  have  long 
forgotten  and  now  saw  again  with  mingled  recognition 
and  surprise.  He  came  at  last  towards  home,  and  saw 
the  church  lying  below  him ;  it  was  the  only  place  he 
had  not  searched,  and  he  knew  at  once  that  they  must 
be  there.  But  as  he  stood  at  the  door  and  raised  the 

260 


STEPHEN'S  DREAM  261 

latch,  a  new  and  terrible  sensation  gripped  him  round 
the  heart ;  he  felt  that  he  was  going  into  the  presence 
of  something  that  he  had  never  yet  known,  and  from 
which  he  could  never  again  be  free.  Opposite  to  him 
as  he  entered  he  saw  the  archway  of  the  Marland 
chantry;  it  was  hung  with  a  curtain  of  black.  He 
lifted  this  and  looked  within;  on  the  floor  lay  two 
crosses  of  wild  flowers,  freshly  gathered,  covering  a 
space  where  the  pavement  had  been  taken  up,  and  the 
gap  closed  for  the  time  with  white  wood  planks.  At 
the  foot  of  these  stood  Edmund  and  another  boy,  whom 
Stephen  knew  at  once  for  Harry  Marland ;  they  were 
looking  down  at  a  child  of  six  who  lay  sleeping  on  the 
floor.  Her  long  hair  was  tumbled  among  the  cowslips 
on  the  grave ;  one  hand  was  thrown  up  round  her  head 
and  grasped  a  little  bunch  of  wild  pansies;  with  the 
other  she  had  rubbed  tears  from  her  face,  and  marked 
her  cheek  with  a  faint  earthy  stain. 

Once  more  Stephen  seemed  to  be  remembering 
something  that  he  had  unaccountably  forgotten ;  side 
by  side  beneath  these  flowers  were  lying  Will  and 
Johnny  Marland,  companions  of  his  own  boyhood,  lost 
a  month  ago  beneath  the  waters  of  the  lake.  Their 
faces  came  before  him  suddenly  in  a  hundred  little 
scenes,  and  he  felt  himself  start  forward  as  if  it  might 
even  now  be  not  too  late  to  save  them  from  the  moment 
that  had  taken  them  for  ever. 


262  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

Then  he  thought  the  other  two  turned  and  saw  him ; 
they  said  nothing,  but  Harry  pointed  to  the  sleeping 
child.  Stephen  wondered  who  she  was,  and  why  she 
seemed  so  still ;  a  fear  came  upon  him  that  she  too 
might  be  dead,  and  he  stooped  quickly  and  laid  his 
hand  upon  her  little  bare  wrist.  She  woke  and  sat  up, 
staring  at  the  two  boys  opposite.  Edmund  held  out  his 
hands  to  her,  but  she  turned  quickly  and  flung  herself 
sobbing  into  Stephen's  arms.  He  carried  her  out 
through  the  black-hung  archway,  and  sat  down  under 
the  west  wall  of  the  church ;  he  felt  her  tears  wet  upon 
his  own  cheek,  and  her  breath  coming  in  warm  floods 
under  the  soft  curtain  of  her  hair,  till  the  sobbing  died 
away  again  by  longer  and  longer  intervals  into  the 
regular  breathing  of  sleep. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  he  sat  there  for  a  long  time 
motionless ;  his  arms  ached  a  little  at  first,  then  stiffened 
and  lost  the  feeling  of  their  burden.  A  stream  of  low, 
sad  music  came  down  from  the  chancel,  and  he  forgot 
himself  in  thought.  When  the  music  ceased,  he  heard 
the  long  burr  of  the  organ,  and  the  sound  of  the  key- 
board closing.  He  rose  to  go,  and  found  that  his  arms 
were  empty.  At  the  door  stood  Edmund  and  Harry, 
waiting  for  him.  "  Where  is  Aubrey  ? "  they  asked ;  and 
in  a  sudden  panic  terror  he  turned  back,  and  woke.  But 
the  child's  face  was  still  clearly  before  him,  and  he  felt 
still  the  warm  glow  of  a  deep  and  immemorial  affection. 


XXXVII 

THAT  face  was  still  before  Stephen  when  he  threw  back 
the  curtain  from  his  window,  and  his  dreams,  instead 
of  fading  away  among  the  bright  colours  of  the  day, 
grew  every  moment  more  vivid  as  he  recalled  them, 
until  they  fixed  themselves  in  his  mind  rather  as  newly 
recovered  memories  than  as  the  transient  and  bloodless 
imaginations  of  sleep.  Whether  or  not  these  scenes 
were  indeed  part,  in  some  way,  of  his  own  history  in 
the  past,  they  belonged  to  Aubrey's  recollection  of  him, 
they  had  been  called  up  by  her,  they  were  a  key,  he 
told  himself,  by  which  he  could  at  last  unlock  her  secret. 
He  came  to  meet  her  with  a  light  heart,  and  suffered  a 
quick  and  unaccountable  disappointment.  She  gave 
him  a  cold  and  passive  hand;  her  eyes  were  not  for 
him  at  all.  Throughout  breakfast  she  spoke  only  to 
Lady  Marland,  or  to  Sir  Henry,  when  he  addressed  her 
directly  ;  and  by  the  time  the  meal  was  over,  Stephen's 
mood  had  passed  from  bewilderment  into  despair,  and 
from  despair  into  an  indignant  resolution  to  insist  upon 
knowing  the  worst  immediately. 

He  found  her  alone  at  last,  bending  over  her  em- 
broidery, in  a  cool  and  darkened  room.    Lady  Marland's 

263 


264  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

work  and  work-basket  lay  on  the  table  near,  and  her 
return  seemed  only  too  probable ;  but  Stephen  could 
not  wait.  He  took  the  empty  chair  at  Aubrey's  side, 
and  sat  down  close  by  her ;  then,  as  she  made  no  sign, 
he  summoned  all  his  courage,  and  touched  her  hand 
with  the  two  or  three  rushes  which  he  was  carrying. 

"  You  have  not  asked  me  about  my  dreams,"  he 
said,  with  a  manner  intended  to  be  light  and  disarm- 
ing ;  but  in  his  own  ears  his  voice  seemed  to  croak. 

"Dreams?"  she  replied,  looking  straight  at  him, 
and  then  straight  away  at  her  work.  "  Are  you  still 
thinking  of  dreams  ? " 

"  When  should  one  think  of  dreams,"  he  asked,  "  if 
not  on  Midsummer  Eve  and  the  morning  after  ? " 

"  Oh !  on  Midsummer  Eve,"  she  said  rather  disdain- 
fully. "  Yes,  one  may  be  childish  at  such  times ;  but 
the  morning  after ! " 

"Do  you  know,"  he  replied,  "that  what  you  said 
appears  to  me  less  childish  this  morning  than  it  did 
last  night  ? " 

She  lifted  her  eyebrows  in  silence,  and  prepared 
to  thread  her  needle  with  a  fresh  piece  of  silk. 

"  Is  it  possible,"  he  cried,  "  that  your  magic  works 
so  unfailingly  upon  others  and  leaves  yourself  un- 
touched ?  Or  did  you  forget  your  rushes  ? " 

Her  hand  shook ;  she  laid  down  the  silken  thread 
and  began  hastily  to  search  for  another. 


AUBREY'S  DEEAM  265 

"  Come,"  she  said,  with  surprising  suddenness  ;  "  if 
you  really  think  your  dreams  so  interesting,  let  me 
hear  them ;  but  you  must  not  expect  me  to  take  any 
responsibility  for  them." 

"  But  I  do,"  he  replied,  more  seriously ;  "  and  I 
thank  you  for  them ;  they  gave  me  back  many  treasures 
that  I  did  not  know  I  had  ever  possessed." 

He  told  the  whole  story,  with  every  smallest  and  most 
vivid  detail,  but  with  more  and  more  difficulty  towards 
the  end.  When  he  had  to  tell  of  the  sobbing  child 
asleep  upon  his  shoulder,  the  words  came  in  toneless 
jerks,  which  enraged  him  by  their  inappropriate  ugliness. 
When  he  had  finished,  he  felt  that  no  action  could  be 
too  violent  or  hazardous,  if  only  it  would  carry  him  out 
of  his  embarrassment. 

Her  voice  came  upon  his  discomfort  like  a  cool,  firm 
hand  upon  fevered  eyes. 

"  I  am  glad  you  had  that  dream,"  she  said  very 
quietly,  speaking  almost  to  herself,  "  because  it  is  all 
true,  and  you  had  forgotten ;  but  I  wonder  whether  you 
would  have  believed  it  if  there  had  been  no  one  to  tell 
you  it  was  true." 

"  I  believed  it  instantly,"  he  replied,  puzzled  by  her 
quiet  earnestness. 

"  Do  you  mean,"  she  persisted,  "  that  it  is  possible 
to  know  when  one  has  dreamed  of  real  things  and  when 
not?" 


266  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

"  Sometimes,  certainly ;  I  knew  at  once." 

"  But  how  did  you  know  ?    What  told  you  ? " 

"  My  heart,"  he  answered,  in  a  voice  that  was  no 
more  than  a  hoarse  whisper;  and  he  felt  the  blood 
beating  round  his  temples  like  the  full  race  against  a 
heavy  mill-wheel. 

Aubrey  seemed  unconscious  of  his  agitation;  she 
was  intently  following  out  her  own  question ;  but  the 
current  of  her  thought  was  tinged  by  his  last  words, 
and  dyed  her  cheeks  slowly  as  it  passed  along.  Stephen 
saw  the  change,  and  felt  himself  upon  the  brink  of  a 
great  discovery.  He  leaned  towards  her,  and  his  voice 
became  again  almost  a  whisper,  from  his  very  eagerness 
to  be  heard  and  answered. 

"  Aubrey,"  he  murmured,  "  have  you  no  dreams  to 
tell  ? " 

But  now  that  the  moment  had  come  she  was  ready 
and  unperturbed.  Across  the  frame  of  her  embroidery, 
lifted  quietly  from  her  knees,  she  looked  at  him  with 
eyes  that  were  unsubdued,  and  met  his  summons  with 
a  demand  of  their  own. 

"  Listen,"  she  said :  "  but  you  must  promise  to  deal 
fairly,  whatever  it  may  cost." 

He  hesitated,  casting  about  for  her  meaning. 

"  You  have  told  me,"  she  went  on,  "  of  old  times 
and  places  where  I  have  been  with  you,  long  ago ;  they 
were  dreams,  and  I  have  made  them  real  for  you." 


AUBREY'S  DREAM  267 

He  nodded,  anxious  for  the  sequel,  and  already 
half  guessing  it. 

"It  was  not  much  to  own  to,  but  it  would  have 
been  easier  to  let  it  pass  and  fade.  If  I  too  have 
dreamed  truth  and  you  know  it,  you  must  own  it  in 
your  turn." 

"  I  will,"  he  replied  eagerly ;  "  why  should  I  not  ? " 

"  Wait,"  she  said ;  "  it  may  not  be  so  easy  as  you 
think." 

She  was  silent  a  moment,  looking  at  him,  he 
thought,  as  if  from  a  great  distance,  and  with  the 
kindness  of  pity  or  regret. 

"  What  I  dreamed,"  she  began  at  last,  "  was  some- 
thing like  this.  I  thought  that  I  was  here  at  Garden- 
leigh,  seeing  and  hearing  everything  that  passed,  but 
neither  seen  nor  heard  myself.  There  was  great  re- 
joicing in  the  house,  and  a  wedding  was  to  take  place 
that  day.  I  saw  the  bride,  already  dressed,  come  into 
the  hall  and  throw  her  arms  about  an  old  man  who 
was  waiting  for  her  there  with  a  crowd  of  other  people. 
He  kissed  her  again  and  again,  and  they  went  out 
together  towards  the  church.  Then  I  saw  the  bride- 
groom coming  alone  down  the  hill  from  the  garden ; 
he  was  in  a  white-and-gold  cloak,  and  I  saw  his  face 
clearly  and  knew  it  well.  But  as  he  came  down  the 
path  I  saw  another  figure  starting  from  the  edge  of  the 
avenue,  from  the  place  where  I  have  so  often  sat;  it 


268  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

came  straight  across  the  grass,  and  I  saw  that  it  would 
intercept  the  bridegroom  halfway  down  the  path. 
There  was  something  terrible  about  this  figure;  it 
moved  so  quickly,  and  passed  over  the  sea  of  tall  grass 
and  buttercups  without  stirring  or  trampling  them.  It 
came  to  the  bridegroom  without  stopping,  and  pushed 
him  lightly  from  the  path;  he  fell  quietly  into  the 
long  grass,  and  I  saw  that  he  was  dead.  The  figure 
stooped  over  him,  and  took  his  wedding-cloak  and  put 
it  on ;  and  now  I  saw  that  it  was  wearing  a  mask,  and 
the  mask  was  made  like  the  bridegroom's  face.  Then 
the  figure  came  down  to  the  church  and  went  in,  and 
I  saw  with  astonishment  that  every  one  took  it  for 
the  bridegroom  himself.  I  spoke  to  those  near  me, 
but  they  did  not  answer ;  the  service  had  begun.  I 
became  more  and  more  terrified ;  I  cried  aloud, '  He  is 
a  murderer :  tear  off  his  mask ! '  but  no  one  seemed  to 
hear.  I  struggled  towards  the  bride,  to  warn  her  before 
it  was  too  late ;  she  at  least  would  see  the  imposture. 
But  when  I  stood  beside  her  I  could  not  speak ;  I  was 
struck  dumb  with  horror  to  see  how  marvellously  like 
the  mask  was  to  the  man.  Then  I  saw  them  go  out 
of  the  church,  but  at  the  door  the  false  bridegroom 
turned  away  from  the  house  and  led  the  way  to  the 
garden  path.  The  bride  would  have  stayed  him,  but 
she  could  not :  she  wept  bitterly,  and  stretched  out  her 
hand  to  the  old  man ;  but  no  one  moved  to  help  her, 


AUBREY'S  DREAM  269 

and  those  two  went  very  swiftly  up  the  path  and  dis- 
appeared into  the  avenue.  Then  every  one  began  to 
follow ;  but  when  they  had  gone  halfway  they  stopped, 
for  there  in  the  grass  lay  the  true  bridegroom  dead. 
They  led  the  old  man  up  to  the  place,  and  I  saw  the 
despair  in  his  eyes.  He  said,  '  She  is  lost ;  I  shall 
never  see  her  again.'  I  heard  myself  crying  fiercely, 
'  You  shall !  you  shall ! '  but  he  could  not  hear  me, 
and  I  felt  myself  being  carried  away  irresistibly  to  an 
infinite  distance,  where  I  could  no  longer  see  or  hear 
either  the  place  or  the  people  of  my  dream." 

When  she  paused  Stephen  was  silent  for  a  moment, 
for  she  had  told  the  story  with  the  power  of  unforgotten 
horror,  and  he  needed  time  to  recover  from  the  im- 
pression it  had  made  upon  his  imagination. 

"  Well  ? "  she  demanded  at  last,  with  a  sharp  ring 
in  her  voice  that  was  almost  peremptory.  "  What  do 
you  say  ? — true  or  untrue  ? " 

"It  is  untrue,"  he  replied.  "I  have  supplanted 
no  one." 

"  You  wear  the  mask,"  she  retorted. 

"  And  the  cloak  ? "  he  asked  boldly.  "  If  I  do,  it 
is  my  own." 

"The  mask,"  she  repeated — "the  mask:  you  can- 
not say  that  you  are  what  you  seem.  Where  is  the 
country  from  which  you  came,  and  to  which  you  will 
return  ? " 


270  THE  OLD  OOUNTKY 

Her  voice  faltered  from  its  firm  questioning  to  a 
wistful  and  uncertain  tone. 

"  Aubrey,"  he  said,  looking  into  her  eyes,  "  was  that 
truly  your  dream  ?  and  were  there  none  but  that  ? " 

She  crimsoned  slowly,  as  if  with  the  reflection  of 
an  unseen  light ;  her  work  slipped  down,  and  one  hand 
fell  with  it  by  her  side. 

"  Yes,  there  were  more ;  but  they  are  all  summed 
up  in  that.  They  were  all  of  parting  from  the  old  loves 
and  going  away  into  the  dark." 

"  The  dark  !  "  he  said.  "  You  are  no  coward ;  and 
life  is  always  the  unknown." 

"Ah!  things  and  places,"  she  sighed.  "I  should 
not  fear  them,  I  think;  it  is  only  persons  that  are 
strange  and  terrible." 

"  You  are  afraid  of  me  ? " 

The  tenderness  in  his  voice  shook  her;  she  spoke 
hurriedly. 

"  I  was  afraid :  how  could  I  not  be  afraid  ?  I  had 
seen  another  Stephen,  in  another  life." 

Joy  sprang  in  him  like  dawn,  and  the  future  flushed 
upward  from  the  horizon. 

"  Not  another,"  he  cried  exultingly — "  not  another ! 
There  is  only  one,  and  that  one  yours." 

He  took  her  hand  in  both  his  own  and  bent  to  kiss 
it.  She  drew  it  gently  away  and  rose  to  her  feet. 

"No,  no;   that  cannot  be.     Your  place  is  there, 


AUBREY'S  DREAM  271 

where  I  saw  you,  in  the  age  to  come,  where  I  can  only 
go  in  dreams ;  mine  is  here  in  the  past,  that  is  only  a 
dream  to  you." 

"  Aubrey,"  he  said,  "  I  will  never  give  you  up.  I 
do  not  care  whether  it  is  here  or  there,  but  you  and  I 
must  be  together  now." 

She  shook  her  head,  looking  at  him  with  wide,  sad 
eyes. 

"  A  man's  life  is  where  his  work  is ;  you  can  never 
be  content  with  this." 

"  Then  come,"  he  said,  holding  out  his  hands. 

She  pointed  at  them  with  her  own.  "  You  confess 
it,"  she  said  despairingly,  "  and  you  ask  what  is  im- 
possible." 

The  door  opened,  and  Lady  Marland  came  in,  chat- 
tering like  a  sparrow. 


XXXVIII 

"  IMPOSSIBLE  "  is  a  word  that  the  lover  has  always  had 
to  face,  but  he  has  given  it  a  meaning  of  his  own.  It 
claims  to  be  final;  yet  to  him  it  brings  not  the  dull 
sound  of  the  cold,  eternal  rock  against  which  hands  of 
flesh  beat  vainly,  but  merely  the  fiat  defiance  of  a 
closing  door — a  door,  like  all  doors,  made  to  be  opened, 
either  from  without  or  within.  If  not  to-day,  then 
perhaps  to-night ;  and  if  to-night  too  he  finds  it  barred, 
there  may  be  possibly  a  light  behind  the  chinks,  or 
a  voice  for  the  listener,  waiting  intently  in  silence. 
To-morrow,  at  any  rate,  the  house  will  be  his  own. 

To-morrow  seemed  to  Stephen  to  be  a  long  way  off, 
but  there  was  much  that  helped  him  to  pass  the  time 
of  waiting.  He  spent  long  days  with  Aubrey,  and  long 
days  by  himself;  sometimes  riding  through  the  greenest 
and  most  peaceful  country  that  the  world  contains, 
sometimes  floating  on  still  water  in  which  the  deep 
tranquillity  of  summer  seemed  to  repeat  itself  in  a  yet 
deeper  mystery  of  peace,  at  once  more  fragile  and  more 
unsubstantial.  The  distant  unrealities  of  everyday  life 
passed  over  him  like  the  drift  of  light  clouds  that 
chequer  the  sky  with  only  momentary  changes. 

2^2 


THE  BELLS  273 

Visitors  and  travellers  came  and  went,  and  neighbours 
now  and  then,  as  the  weather  cooled  and  lightened 
towards  autumn.  There  was  often  news  to  talk  of — 
news  of  the  King  in  Scotland,  of  the  Duke  in  Nor- 
mandy, of  the  Prince  upon  his  new  campaign ;  news, 
too,  of  the  Bishop  and  his  health,  but  not  a  word  of 
Ralph  from  any  one. 

Mid-September  brought  a  wilder  and  more  melan- 
choly note;  for  several  days  the  rain  fell  hour  after 
hour  from  twilight  to  twilight,  and  the  wind  went 
straining  and  sighing  among  the  great  trees  with  a 
sound  like  the  breathing  of  a  strong  man  tossed  in  the 
long,  unconscious  agony  of  death.  Vague  rumours 
came  of  a  disaster  in  France:  Sir  Henry  would  not 
hear  a  word  of  them,  but  he  was  unusually  bitter  when 
he  spoke  of  the  inveterate  folly  of  marching  with  too 
small  a  force,  and  risking  everything  upon  a  single 
hazard.  The  others  would  have  covered  up  so  anxious 
a  topic.  Stephen,  though  he  could  remember  little 
enough  of  the  Black  Prince,  argued  determinedly  that 
his  force  was  a  match  for  any  odds,  for  he  knew  by 
experience  that  even  defeat  may  well  be  less  terrible 
than  the  nightmare  of  dumb  endurance  that  crushes 
men  separately  when  their  pride  will  not  allow  them 
to  talk  openly  of  their  fears.  He  thought  that  Aubrey 
looked  hard  at  him  while  he  was  speaking,  but  she 
would  not  be  drawn  into  the  conversation,  or  own  to 

T 


274  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

any  definite  opinion  on  the  war ;  whatever  unacknow- 
ledged memories  she  might  share  with  him,  she  was 
still,  to  all  appearance,  the  child  of  another  century 
than  that  from  which  he  had  come. 

The  sky  cleared  at  last,  the  gale  dropped,  and  the 
nightmare  faded  away  before  the  returning  sun.  There 
were  fallen  trees  to  be  trimmed  and  lopped  and  sawn, 
and  carted  to  the  timber-yard — a  week's  work  at 
least,  and  a  great  grief  to  Aubrey,  who  loved  the  dead 
giants  as  if  they  had  been  human.  For  her  they  all 
had  characters  and  voices  of  their  own,  and  it  was  a 
lucky  moment  that  inspired  Stephen  to  speak  of  them 
as  her  "  fellow-countrymen."  She  joined  in  the  laugh 
at  herself,  but  laid  the  saying  away  in  a  secret  place 
among  others  much  more  serious ;  and  went  out  with 
him  to  see  the  woodmen  at  their  work.  The  park 
echoed  with  the  crash  of  timber  and  the  ringing  strokes 
of  the  axe  ;  the  great  teams  stood  patiently  by,  waiting 
motionless,  until  the  huge  trunk  was  stripped  and 
fettered  for  its  last  journey.  Then  the  whip  cracked, 
and  the  word  of  command  from  a  gruff  Saxon  throat 
set  the  shaggy  horses  thudding  ponderously  on  the 
turf;  the  head-bells  rang,  and  the  bright  brass  on  the 
martingales  flashed  in  the  sun ;  the  vast  baulk  started, 
stuck,  started  again,  and  glided  at  last  from  the  rollers 
to  the  waggon  with  a  heart-shaking  rattle.  Then  once 
more  the  chains  were  shifted  and  made  fast,  and  the 


THE  BELLS  275 

horses  went  on  their  way  with  a  slow,  majestic  step 
worthy  of  a  great  king's  obsequies. 

"Ah!"  cried  Aubrey,  with  shining  eyes,  "how  I 
love  the  earth!  She  builds  trees  where  we  can  only 
build  houses." 

"Houses  can  be  English  too,"  said  Stephen,  half 
laughing  at  her. 

"  They  can ;  but  they  change.  Yesterday  they  were 
of  wood,  to-day  they  are  of  stone,  to-morrow  they  may 
be  of  something  else;  there  is  no  finality  in  houses. 
But  trees  are  always  trees,  and  what  we  have  been 
looking  at  is  a  picture  that  might  belong  to  any  gene- 
ration since  England  was  England." 

"  And  while  England  is  England,  I  think." 

To  this,  however,  he  got  no  reply,  and  he  began  to 
realize  that,  from  some  feeling  at  which  he  could  only 
guess,  the  future  was  a  subject  on  which  she  did  not 
wish  to  talk  with  him.  But,  except  for  this  one 
limitation,  their  companionship  became  even  closer 
than  before. 

And  now,  to  Stephen's  wonder  and  content,  this 
quiet  valley  that  he  had  watched  all  through  its 
summer  dream  passed  on  into  a  still  profounder  calm, 
the  bright  reverie  of  the  year  in  its  riper  and  serener 
age.  Morning  after  morning  broke  under  the  light 
October  mist,  that  left  as  it  dissolved  a  delicate  silver 
tissue  glimmering  and  sparkling  on  the  grassy  slopes. 


276  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

All  day  the  windless  air  became  softer  and  more 
mellow;  roses  bloomed  again  for  the  last  time,  and 
great  red  admirals  sailed  in  fleets  among  the  autumn 
purples.  The  woods  glowed  as  if  every  sunset  dyed 
them  deeper;  single  trees  hung  in  the  landscape  like 
towering  golden  clouds.  The  distant  Selwood  chimes, 
as  they  floated  over  the  old  red-walled  garden  where 
he  sat  one  afternoon  with  Aubrey,  seemed  to  be  an 
inseparable  part  of  the  enchantment,  the  very  voice  of 
immemorial  beauty. 

To  her  they  brought  a  widely  different  message : 
she  sprang  up  white  and  trembling. 

"  The  bells  ! "  she  cried ;  "  the  bells  on  Friday  ! 
Stephen,  it  is  victory ! " 

She  caught  her  breath  and  listened  again:  two 
bright  tears  gathered  in  her  eyes,  till  she  shook  them 
down  with  a  laugh  and  turned  to  Stephen. 

"  Let  us  go  down  and  send  for  news,"  she  said ;  and 
they  hurried  to  the  gate. 

As  they  came  out  of  the  shelter  of  the  high  wall 
on  to  the  hill,  the  sound  of  the  chimes  came  still  more 
clearly,  and  changed  to  a  shooting  peal  that  seemed  to 
crash  with  reckless  joy.  It  echoed  in  Stephen's  heart, 
but  Aubrey  it  seemed  to  possess  like  an  inspiration; 
she  walked  beside  him  with  such  an  ecstasy  of  silent 
pride  as  he  had  never  seen  or  imagined.  As  they 
neared  the  house  there  was  a  sound  of  trampling  and 


THE  BELLS  277 

loud  shoutiDg  of  many  voices ;  two  men  were  striding 
quickly  from  the  stables  to  the  courtyard.  Aubrey's 
voice  rang  out  like  a  silver  trumpet ;  the  two  figures 
turned,  and  one  stepped  back  a  pace  to  look  between 
the  trees.  "  Harry! "  she  cried  again,  and  ran  on  to  fling 
her  arms  about  his  neck.  When  Stephen  came  up  he 
found  them  all  three  laughing  and  talking  at  once. 
"  Here  he  is,  Stephen ! "  she  said,  leaning  fondly  on 
her  cousin's  arm;  "and  I  think  you  used  to  know 
Lord  Bryan." 


XXXIX 

THAT  was  a  festal  night.  Stephen  was  astonished  at 
the  fervour  and  universality  of  the  rejoicing ;  he  hardly 
recognized  his  staid  and  tongue-tied  fellow-countrymen. 
But  there  was  in  reality  little  cause  for  his  surprise. 
No  such  news  as  this  had  come  from  oversea  since  the 
great  days  of  '46,  and  even  the  memory  of  Cressy  had 
long  suffered  eclipse  beneath  the  black  shadow  of  the 
pestilence.  But  now  for  an  hour  the  age  was  young 
again,  the  nation  one  triumphant  fellowship,  the  cost 
and  strain  of  war  forgiven,  the  Crown  re-jewelled  by 
that  Prince  who  was  at  once  the  friend  of  the  Commons 
and  the  flower  of  the  world's  chivalry.  No  wonder 
that  the  hills  of  England  shouted  together,  as  of  old, 
with  tongues  of  fire ;  no  wonder  that  here  at  Garden- 
leigh,  as  in  a  hundred  other  valleys,  the  old  hall  was 
crowded  and  gay  that  night  with  a  revelry  it  had  long 
forgotten. 

At  the  high  table  Lady  Marland  and  Sir  Henry  sat 
between  the  messengers  of  victory ;  Harry  Marland  by 
his  father,  and  Lord  Bryan  on  his  hostess's  right; 
Aubrey  next,  and  Stephen  by  her;  two  of  the  five 
squires  below  them;  the  rest  at  the  other  end  with 

278 


THE  TACTICS  OF  POITIERS  279 

the  Rector,  tall  John  Perrot,  a  saint  with  a  soldier's 
eye,  who  knew  when  feasting  on  a  Friday  was  legiti- 
mate— his  turn  would  come  to-morrow.  The  lower 
tables  were  filled  to  overflowing  by  Lord  Bryan's  men, 
quartered  for  the  most  part  in  Selwood,  but  for  the 
evening  safer  here  among  the  well-disciplined  house- 
hold of  the  Marlands,  than  running  loose  through  the 
pothouses  of  the  town.  They  were  glad  to  be  back, 
doubly  glad  to  find  themselves  so  far  on  their  way 
westward ;  and  since  they  were  all  Devon  men,  with 
a  becoming  confidence,  the  sound  of  their  speech  came 
up  the  hall  as  pleasant  and  as  free  as  the  wind  over 
the  heather.  At  Sir  Henry's  bidding  they  drank  to 
the  King,  the  Queen,  and  the  Eoyal  Family,  with  en- 
thusiasm ;  and  to  the  Prince  with  a  roar  that  seemed 
intended  to  be  heard  across  the  Channel.  Then  the 
high  table  rose,  and  left  them  to  it. 

In  the  great  gallery  wine  and  spices  were  waiting 
on  two  tables  by  the  fire.  The  room  was  ablaze  with 
light  from  end  to  end,  and  hung  along  the  walls  with 
fresh  leafage  of  all  the  richest  colours  of  autumn. 
Where  the  armoured  figures  stood  in  their  grim,  un- 
bending rank  there  was  a  wreath  on  every  helmet, 
and  the  nearest  mailed  hand  gripped  the  tarnished 
and  moth-eaten  banner  of  Harry's  grandfather,  the  first 
Sir  Henry,  crowned  with  oak-leaves,  and  wound  about 
the  staff  with  bright  new  scarlet  and  silver.  The  fire, 


280  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

piled  high  with  logs,  gave  out  a  clear  and  steady  glow, 
that  flashed  on  the  silver  cups  and  flagons,  and  was 
reflected  again  in  the  polished  surface  of  the  tables  on 
which  they  stood. 

The  soldiers  all  exclaimed  with  admiration  as  they 
entered  the  room  ;  it  was  many  months  since  they  had 
seen  such  comfort,  and  here  there  was  an  added  touch 
of  stateliness,  the  more  impressive  because  it  told,  not 
of  effort  or  ostentation,  but  of  ancestral  wealth  and  the 
unconscious  ease  of  a  country  long  untouched  by  the 
havoc  of  war. 

"That  was  a  gay  scene  downstairs,"  said  Lord 
Bryan,  as  he  handed  Lady  Marland  to  the  high-backed 
chair  by  the  fireside. 

"  Was  it  not  terrible  ? "  she  replied,  in  her  shrill 
little  voice.  "  It  was  all  I  could  do  to  hear  myself  speak." 

"  I  heard  you  quite  well,  my  dear,"  said  her  husband 
gravely,  with  a  gleam  behind  the  gravity. 

Among  the  younger  squires  there  was  some  danger 
of  a  lapse  from  decorum ;  but  it  passed  off,  fortunately, 
without  attracting  Lady  Marland's  attention. 

"  I  did  my  best,"  she  replied,  with  plaintive  dignity, 
"  but  I  am  sure  I  have  strained  my  throat." 

Aubrey  settled  herself  at  her  aunt's  feet.  "  Never 
mind,  dearest,"  she  said ;  "  we  need  not  do  any  more 
talking  now.  Guy  is  going  to  tell  us  all  about  the 
battle." 


THE  TACTICS  OF  POITIEKS  281 

Lord  Bryan  smiled  and  poured  out  wine.  "  All 
about  this  battle  is  a  long  story,"  he  said,  "  and  more 
than  I  really  know.  Harry  saw  it  from  beginning  to 
end  better  than  I  did ;  if  he  will  be  chronicler,  I  will 
do  my  best  to  help  him  out  here  and  there." 

"Well,"  said  Harry,  cheerfully,  "where  am  I  to 
begin  ?  You  know  we  started  on  the  ninth  of  August, 
and  drew  covert  after  covert  for  more  than  a  month 
before  we  found  anything  like  a  warrantable  deer.  I 
can't  go  through  all  that  now — it  would  take  much 
too  long.  It  ended  at  last  in  our  coming  on  the 
whole  herd  at  once — they  were  seven  or  eight  times 
as  many  as  we  were — and  we  got  them  safely  harboured 
in  Poitiers  on  a  Saturday  night.  We  slept  out  our- 
selves, in  a  wood  by  the  abbey  of  Nouaille,  and  began 
to  lay  the  pack  on  first  thing  in  the  morning.  They 
were  tired  of  all  this  casting  about,  and  just  mad  for  a 
kill.  But  we  had  all  forgotten  what  a  wily  quarry  we 
were  after.  At  the  very  moment  when  we  thought  he 
was  going  to  show  sport,  what  should  we  see  but  a  great 
Cardinal — one  of  these  professional  arbitration-mongers 
— trotting  towards  us,  as  calmly  as  if  he  had  been  coming 
to  pay  a  friendly  call.  He  talked  a  great  deal  about  the 
wickedness  of  shedding  Christian  blood,  and  wasted  the 
whole  day  for  us  by  running  backwards  and  forwards 
between  the  two  lines,  carrying  the  most  impossible 
proposals  from  one  to  the  other.  It  was  rather  too  bad, 


282  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

considering  that  the  skirmishing  had  already  begun 
before  he  started,  and  our  men  and  theirs  had  watered 
their  horses  at  the  same  stream  that  morning,  and 
promised  each  other  any  amount  of  broken  heads.  But 
the  Frenchmen  did  not  fool  the  Prince  as  completely  as 
they  thought ;  they  got  up  a  lot  of  reinforcements  during 
the  day,  and  our  fellows  grumbled  a  good  deal  as  they 
saw  the  banners  coming  in ;  but  we  had  a  good  rest  and 
did  some  useful  scouting.  In  the  evening  the  nego- 
tiations were  broken  off,  as  every  one  knew  they  would 
be,  and  we  moved  away  a  little  to  avoid  any  chance  of 
a  surprise.  They  were  fifty  thousand  odd — eighty-seven 
banners — and  we  were  a  bare  seven  thousand :  in  a 
night  attack  they  would  have  gone  right  over  us,  like  a 
harrow  over  a  toad. 

"  At  breakfast-time  next  morning— would  you 
believe  it  ? — there  was  the  Cardinal  again.  We  really 
rather  admired  the  fellow's  obstinacy ;  but  we  had  no 
idea  of  losing  another  good  day,  so  this  time  we  sent 
him  off  home  at  once,  with  a'  cheer  to  show  that  there 
was  no  ill-feeling.  You  ought  to  be  pleased  with  us 
for  that,  mother." 

"  My  dear,"  replied  Lady  Marland,  "  I  am  always 
pleased  when  you  behave  properly  to  the  clergy.  I 
have  no  doubt  the  Cardinal  is  a  very  good  man." 

"  Oh !  is  he  ? "  said  Harry,  with  a  nod  to  his  father. 
"  I  will  come  to  that  a  little  later  on.  I  want  you  now 


THE  TACTICS  OP  POITIERS  283 

to  understand  exactly  the  position  we  were  in.  For  a 
straight  fight  according  to  the  rules  we  were  not  so 
badly  off  as  the  figures  would  appear  to  show :  we  had 
four  thousand  men-of-arms  to  their  eight;  the  rest  of 
their  big  battalions  were  sure  to  be  very  unsteady,  and 
they  had  practically  no  marksmen  to  set  against  our 
archers — two  thousand  archers  we  had.  On  a  fairly 
narrow  front,  with  no  open  flanks,  we  might  very  well 
hold  our  own  if  we  could  only  manage  to  get  our  huge 
baggage-train  into  leaguer.  Now,  just  across  the  river, 
which  lay  on  our  right,  the  Prince  had  marked  a  piece 
of  ground  that  was  almost  exactly  what  we  wanted :  a 
big  field,  or  rather  an  enclosed  hill,  with  a  good  hedge 
and  ditch  all  round  it ;  and  what  was  better  still,  that 
part  of  the  hedge  which  was  to  be  our  front  ran  down 
on  the  left  into  a  piece  of  marshy  ground  by  the  river, 
which  was  practically  impossible  for  cavalry.  Some  of 
the  enemy  were  supposed  to  be  already  down  under  the 
front  of  the  hill,  but  the  higher  part  that  we  were  to 
occupy  first  had  a  lot  of  bushes  and  brambles  on  it  that 
would  give  us  good  cover;  and  besides,  we  should  have  the 
advantage  of  the  ground.  The  top  of  this  hill  was  rough 
pasture ;  on  the  south  and  west  face  there  were  vines, 
where  we  meant  to  clamber  up,  and  the  remainder  of  the 
field — that  is,  the  whole  of  the  north  and  eastern  slope 
down  to  the  hedge — was  stubble  and  green  crops,  and  so 
was  the  ground  beyond,  on  the  French  side  of  the  fence. 


284  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

"  The  first  thing  to  do  was  to  get  across  the  river, 
which  lies  very  awkwardly  in  a  deep  bed.  There  was  a 
ford,  happily,  just  narrow  enough  to  be  practicable,  and 
over  we  went  in  a  scramble — Warwick  first  with  the 
van,  then  the  Prince's  division  with  the  waggons. 
Salisbury  had  the  rearguard,  and  he  came  flying  over 
and  got  into  position  on  Warwick's  right  rear  before  our 
division  had  half  finished  leaguering  in  the  marsh ;  but 
some  of  us — the  men-of-arins — had  gone  on  up  to  the 
top  of  the  hill  with  the  Prince  himself.  There  he  kept 
us,  in  reserve,  as  it  turned  out ;  and  that  is  how  I  came 
to  see  the  whole  show  so  well." 

"  Where  were  you,  Guy  ?  "  asked  Aubrey. 

"  In  the  same  place,"  Lord  Bryan  replied ;  "  but  I 
was  in  the  first  line  of  the  reserve,  which  was  used  up 
much  earlier.  It  was  the  last  four  hundred — Harry  and 
his  friends — that  really  did  the  business." 

"  Don't  listen  to  him,"  said  Harry.  "  I'm  telling 
you  the  whole  thing  just  as  it  happened,  and  you 
must  attend  to  me.  What  I  want  you  to  see  is  this : 
Warwick,  with  fifteen  hundred  men-of-arms,  lining  out 
behind  the  hedge  on  the  slope  where  it  began  to  run 
down  into  the  marsh,  in  touch  with  our  fellows  in 
leaguer  at  the  bottom.  On  his  flanks  he  had  a  thousand 
archers ;  they  stood  mostly  outside  the  hedge,  on  the 
bank  above  the  ditch,  but  some  were  in  among  the 
vines,  and  those  lowest  down  were  right  in  the  marsh. 


THE  TACTICS  OF  POITIERS  285 

Down  on  the  more  level  ground  in  front,  where  it  was 
dry  enough,  Warwick's  young  bloods  were  trying  to  get 
up  a  little  tournament  with  some  of  the  French  cavalry, 
who  were  beginning  to  advance  in  two  lots,  under  the 
Marshals  Clermont  and  Audreham.  By  the  way,  they 
had  been  quarrelling,  those  two,  and  they  came  on  too 
quick,  without  waiting  for  their  supports.  It  appears 
that  when  the  Prince  began  to  cross,  and  his  banner  was 
moved  about  and  finally  went  out  of  sight  in  the  dip, 
one  of  them  said  we  were  evidently  retreating,  and  the 
other  sneered  at  him;  so  they  raced  each  other  into 
action  and  spoiled  the  timing  of  the  whole  attack. 
While  Clermont  was  skirmishing,  Audreham  halted  a 
moment  to  watch.  Clermont  seized  the  opportunity  to 
make  a  dash  for  a  big  gap  in  the  fence,  some  way  up 
beyond  Warwick's  right.  It  was  a  good  move,  because 
if  he  had  got  in  he  would  have  taken  the  whole  first 
division  in  flank.  But  he  reckoned  without  Salisbury, 
whom  he  probably  could  not  see.  When  he  reached  the 
part  of  the  hedge  where  the  gap  was — it  was  a  really  big 
gap,  a  cart-track  wide  enough  for  four  horses  abreast — he 
found  Salisbury  there  already ;  he  had  moved  forward  on 
his  own  account,  and  had  his  archers  very  neatly  drawn 
up  in  open  order,  with  a  second  rank  closing  the  intervals, 
and  his  men-of-arms  in  line  behind  them.  So  the 
rearguard,  to  their  huge  delight,  were  in  action  first, 
after  all." 


286  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

"  In  fact,"  said  Sir  Henry,  "  they  had  given  them- 
selves leave  not  to  be  a  rearguard  at  all.  What  did  the 
Prince  say  to  that  ?  " 

"  Well,  he  saw  that  Salisbury  had  really  no  choice  in 
the  circumstances;  but,  of  course,  he  looked  black, 
because  it  just  doubled  his  fighting  line  and  halved  his 
reinforcements.  What  he  did  was  to  make  his  own 
division  into  two  reserves,  as  Guy  has  told  you.  Even 
so,  if  we  had  had  to  meet  four  successive  attacks,  as 
the  French  intended,  we  might  have  been  done;  but, 
happily,  Orleans  never  toed  the  line  at  all,  and  we  just 
lasted  out." 

"  Now  come  back  to  the  marshals,"  said  Sir  Henry. 

"  The  marshals  got  to  close  quarters  in  much  better 
order  than  we  liked ;  the  shooting  of  Warwick's  men 
straight  in  their  faces  seemed  to  produce  very  little 
effect  upon  them ;  so  the  Prince  sent  Oxford  down  in  a 
hurry  to  advance  the  archers  on  the  left.  By  George ! 
you  never  saw  such  a  change  in  five  minutes;  those 
fellows  ran  out  without  any  cover,  and  smote  the  French 
cavalry  on  their  right  flank  and  rear  with  a  perfect 
hailstorm.  Some  of  the  horses  looked  like  hedgehogs ; 
all  of  them  went  down  or  bolted,  and  Warwick  did  what 
he  liked  with  the  few  who  had  got  through  the  hedge. 
Then  the  archers  came  back  to  their  place  in  regular 
marching  order,  as  cool  and  quiet  as  if  they  had  been 
out  to  the  butts.  Meanwhile,  Salisbury  had  done 


THE  TACTICS  OF  POITIERS  287 

equally  well  on  the  right ;  so  there  was  an  end  of  the 
marshals  and  their  quarrel — Clermont  was  dead  and 
Audreham  a  prisoner. 

"  Nothing  in  the  way  of  pursuit  was  allowed :  Nor- 
mandy's division  was  already  advancing ;  they  were  too 
late  to  support,  so  they  made  a  separate  attack  of  it. 
There  were  a  great  lot  of  them,  and  they  had  a  good 
stiffening  of  men-of-arms,  but  fortunately  no  artillery. 
Still,  it  looked  like  a  long  and  tough  business,  and  the 
Prince  sent  down  the  larger  half  of  his  reserve  into  the 
fighting  line  to  enable  Warwick  to  extend  towards 
Salisbury.  This  time  the  archers  seemed  to  be  out  of 
it:  there  were  no  horses  for  them  to  stick,  and  they 
used  up  all  their  arrows  on  steel  plates  that  were  too 
good  for  them.  It  was  a  ding-dong  fight ;  our  fellows 
had  begun  by  standing  outside  the  hedge  this  time — I 
suppose  they  wanted  to  get  their  backs  up  against  some- 
thing— but  the  Frenchmen  pushed  them  home  again 
with  an  ugly  rush,  and  began  to  follow  through  the 
fence.  Then  some  archers  of  our  division,  including 
Guy's  little  lot  of  Devon  men,  who  had  finished  their 
work  down  among  the  baggage,  came  at  a  grand  run 
light  up  the  waggon  side  of  the  hill  and  over  the  top 
and  down  on  to  the  thick  of  the  mellay  outside  the 
hedge.  There  they  stood  and  shot  at  point-blank  range, 
and  that  soon  settled  the  business.  Then  came  the 
greatest  stroke  of  luck  we  had.  When  our  fellows  had 


288  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

once  shifted  the  French,  they  kept  them  moving  so 
briskly  that  they  ran  them  right  into  Orleans'  men 
behind,  and  the  greater  part  of  both  divisions  went  off 
the  field  together  towards  Chauvigny.  Those  of  them 
who  did  not  bolt  went  back  and  joined  the  King's 
own  division.  They  must  have  been  good  men  to  come 
again  after  such  a  shaking,  but  they  got  nothing  by  it ; 
it  was  not  their  day." 

"  Oh  !  don't  say  that,"  said  Aubrey,  gently ;  "  it  was 
their  best  day." 

"It  was  certainly  their  last,"  replied  Harry,  with 
satisfaction. 

"  My  boy,"  said  his  father,  "  you  have  every  right  to 
triumph,  but  what  were  you  feeling  like  yourselves 
about  that  time  ?  " 

Harry  reddened.  "  I  did  not  mean  to  be  brutal,"  he 
said ;  "  and  we  certainly  were  not  thinking  lightly  of 
them  just  then.  Our  front  was  a  dreadful  sight ;  the 
wounded  were  being  dragged  hastily  under  cover,  and 
there  were  not  half  enough  men  to  do  the  work  properly, 
for  we  had  hardly  a  man  left  standing  in  the  line  who 
was  not  either  wounded  himself  or  dead  beat  with 
fatigue ;  and  then  there  was  such  a  shortage  of  arrows 
that  the  archers  were  all  over  the  field  collecting  what 
they  could — even  pulling  them  out  of  dying  men,  1 
heard ;  it  was  no  time  for  squeamishness.  Mercifully, 
the  French  King  was  so  long  in  getting  under  way  that 


THE  TACTICS  OF  POITIERS  289 

things  were  straightened  out  at  last,  and  the  men  got 
their  breath  a  little ;  but  there  was  no  doubt  that  they 
did  not  like  the  look  of  the  weather,  and  some  of  them 
raised  a  scare  that  the  Captal  de  Buch  had  gone  home. 
He  had  certainly  disappeared,  with  all  his  command — 
fifty  or  sixty  men-of-arms  and  a  good  hundred  archers — 
but  he  was  the  last  man  in  the  world  to  go  before  the 
end,  and  he  proved  it  once  for  all.    While  we  were 
refitting,  he  was  marching  back  clean  round  the  hill  we 
were  on,  and  out  to  the  right,  so  as  to  fall  on  the  left  rear 
of  the  French  when  the  pinch  came.     Meanwhile,  the 
Prince  ordered  us  down  at  last — the  only  four  hundred 
fresh  men  he  had — got  the  whole  line  out  into  the  open, 
with  us  in  the  centre,  and  called  out  to  Walter  Wood- 
land to  '  advance  banner.'    Then  the  French  made  their 
final  mistake.     When  they  saw  us  on  the  move,  with 
the  lilies  and  lions    overhead  and  all  our  trumpets 
sounding  the  charge,  they  started  right  off  toward  us  at 
the  double,  as  if  they  meant  to  roll  over  us  like  a  huge 
wave.    Of  course,  when  they  got  up  they  were  in  rather 
ragged  order,  and  quite  blown.     Still,  the  shock  was 
tremendous,  and  our  line  reeled  from  one  end  to  the 
other.     But  the  Prince  was  not  going  to  lose  his  best 
fight,  if  hard  hitting  would  save  it.     We  could  see  the 
Captal  by  this  time ;  he  was  flying  a  big  St.  George's 
ensign  to  warn  us  not  to  mistake  him,  and  quite  right 
too,  for  he  came  absolutely  straight  in  upon  the  French 

u 


290  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

rear,  in  the  very  track  they  had  just  trampled.  Then 
the  Prince  knew  he  had  them  between  the  crackers ; 
they  were  a  big  nut  and  a  hard  one,  but  he  kept  shouting 
to  us,  '  Forward !  forward ! '  and  laying  on  himself  like 
ten  men  threshing,  till  he  got  the  rush  to  a  standstill, 
and  we  felt  that  we  were  holding  them.  At  that 
moment,  in  the  nick  of  time,  the  Captal's  archers  began 
to  let  fly ;  ours  had  already  spent  their  shot,  and  were 
joining  in  with  swords  and  sticks  and  anything  else 
they  could  pick  up — even  stones.  But  those  hundred 
fellows  had  every  one  of  them  a  full  quiver  and  a  fair 
target — ten  thousand  backs  at  thirty  yards.  There  were 
more  than  twenty  companies  in  that  division.  Well, 
they  were  hopelessly  clubbed  almost  before  we  knew 
what  was  happening ;  but  we  soon  saw  that  they  were 
hurting  each  other  more  than  us,  and  when  the  banners 
began  dropping  one  by  one  we  knew  that  we  really  had 
them  at  last.  It  was  more  like  reaping  than  fighting ; 
they  were  standing  so  thick  that  they  could  not  hit  out 
at  us,  and  we  cut  them  down  in  swathes  all  along  the 
line,  while  the  Prince  and  Chandos  and  Cobham  went 
deeper  and  deeper  in,  trying  to  reach  the  King  himself. 
He  was  easy  to  see,  because  he  was  down  below  us  and 
on  a  bit  of  a  mound,  and  had  Chargny  by  him  with  his 
banner ;  but  to  get  near  him  was  a  very  different  matter, 
because  of  the  mob  of  hungry  fellows  who  wanted  him 
alive  for  his  ransom.  He  kept  them  off  with  quick, 


THE  TACTICS  OF  POITIERS  291 

dangerous  strokes,  just  like  a  stag  at  bay,  and  whenever 
any  of  them  tried  to  get  at  him  from  one  side  or  the 
other,  his  young  son  Philip  called  out, '  Eight,  father ! 
left!  right!'  At  last  Chargny  went  down  with  the 
banner  in  his  hands,  and  the  King  saw  that  it  was  time 
to  cry  '  Enough ! '  After  all,  he  had  done  uncommonly 
well ;  it  is  not  often  that  a  King  gets  such  a  taste  of  the 
real  thing,  and  if  his  men  had  all  put  as  much  good- will 
into  it  as  he  did,  we  should  probably  not  be  here  now." 

"  Who  took  him  in  the  end  ? "  asked  the  Eector. 

"  Oh !  a  Gascon,  of  course,"  replied  Harry,  with  a 
short  laugh. 

"  And  how  much  did  he  get  for  him  ? " 

"  No  one  knows  exactly.  You  see,  a  dozen  fellows 
claimed  the  prize,  and  the  Prince  said  he  would  hear 
all  their  claims  when  he  got  home ;  but  the  King  had 
given  this  Morbecque  his  glove  and  asked  his  name.  So 
it  was  really  a  clear  case,  and  Morbecque,  when  we 
came  away,  had  already  been  promoted  and  had  an 
enormous  sum  given  him  on  account,  to  keep  up  his 
position — the  position  of  a  Gascon  adventurer  ! " 

Lord  Bryan  laughed.  "  Cheer  up,  Harry  ! "  he  said. 
"  You  and  I  ought  to  be  thankful  we  don't  need  the 
money,  for  after  all,  he  was  forty  yards  in  front 
of  us." 

"  Besides,"  said  Aubrey,  "  I  dare  say  it  was  less 
humiliating  for  the  King  to  surrender  to  a  Frenchman." 


292  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

Lord  Bryan  ceased  to  smile.  "  I  assure  you,"  he 
said,  in  a  quiet  tone  that  seemed  to  change  the  whole 
key  of  the  conversation,  "  that  if  he  thought  so,  he  was 
never  more  mistaken.  No  matter  who  took  his  glove, 
it  was  to  Edward  Prince  of  Wales  that  he  surrendered." 

There  was  no  pride  in  the  voice,  but  so  much  in  the 
words  that  every  one  was  silent. 

"  Let  me  tell  you,"  he  continued,  "  what  happened 
the  first  evening.  When  supper  was  ready,  the  Prince 
brought  the  King  into  his  tent  and  placed  him  at  a  high 
table  with  Prince  Philip  and  seven  others  of  the  highest 
degree  among  those  we  had  taken  unhurt.  The  rest  of 
the  prisoners  of  rank  were  arranged  at  other  tables,  with 
Chandos  and  Cobham  and  many  more  of  our  own  people 
among  them.  Everything  was  done  so  well  and  with 
so  much  ceremony  that  it  was  more  like  supping  in  the 
pavilion  after  a  tournament  at  Windsor,  than  in  a  tent 
hastily  pitched  on  the  field  of  battle.  At  the  high  table 
an  English  knight  stood  behind  the  chair  of  every  guest, 
and  when  the  French  King  had  taken  his  seat  two 
trumpeters  sounded  for  the  service  to  begin.  The  King 
looked  about  him  in  surprise,  and  asked  where  his  host 
was  to  sit.  When  no  one  answered  he  turned  round  ; 
the  Prince  was  there  beside  him  on  one  knee,  offering 
him  water  for  his  hands  in  a  silver  basin." 

The  words  fell  deliberately  one  by  one  from  the 
speaker,  as  if  he  knew  that  he  had  no  need  to  repeat 


THE  TACTICS  OF  POITIERS  293 

a  single  stroke ;  he  had  drawn  the  picture  as  he  in- 
tended, and  it  must  convince. 

"What  did  the  King   say  then?"  asked  Aubrey, 
eagerly. 

"I  could  not  hear,  but  I  saw  that  he  was  remon- 
strating, and  the  Sire  de  Bourbon  rose  from  his  seat  on 
the  Bang's  left  to  give  up  his  place  to  the  Prince.  But 
the  Prince  remained  kneeling,  and  there  was  a  sudden 
hush  all  through  the  tent,  so  that  we  could  hear  every 
word  that  followed.  The  Prince  said  that  he  was  not 
worthy  to  sit  at  the  table  with  so  great  a  King.  The 
King  replied,  with  a  bitter  little  smile,  that  the  day's 
work  was  a  sufficient  answer  to  that.  But  the  Prince 
said  very  earnestly,  '  Sir,  I  beg  you  will  not  take  it 
so  hard  that  the  fortune  of  war  has  gone  against  you. 
Let  me  assure  you  that  you  will  meet  with  so  much 
honour  and  kindness  at  my  father's  hands  that  you 
will  remember  to-day  only  as  the  beginning  of  your 
friendship  with  him.'  That  was  enough ;  I  saw  the 
King's  face  change.  He  looked  straight  at  the  Prince 
for  one  moment,  then  dipped  both  his  hands  in  the 
bowl  without  another  word. 

"After  that,  every  one's  tongue  was  loosed  again, 
and  even  the  French  were  loud  in  the  Prince's  praise. 
The  one  who  was  sitting  next  me — he  was  a  very  fine 
courtly  old  gentleman — seemed  to  be  much  moved ;  he 
said  to  me,  '  Sir,  your  Prince  is  like  to  prove  a  great 


294  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

King ; '  to  which  I  replied,  '  Yes,  if  God  send  him  life 
and  a  continuance  of  such  good  fortune.'  He  turned 
quickly  away,  and  to  my  great  surprise  I  saw  that  he 
was  in  tears.  Presently  he  recovered  himself,  and  said, 
'  You  do  well  not  to  make  too  sure ;  I  made  too 
sure.'  His  own  son  was  a  very  promising  young 
captain,  of  much  about  the  Prince's  age,  and  he  had 
been  killed  with  Clermont  in  the  morning." 

"  Poor  fellow !  "  said  Sir  Henry,  in  a  low  voice,  and 
he  went  on  murmuring  to  himself  in  a  tone  of  deep 
feeling,  "  Poor  fellow ;  poor  fellow ! " 

Every  one  knew  that  he  was  thinking  of  his  own 
lost  boys,  but  no  one  knew  what  to  say ;  there  was  a 
moment  of  embarrassed  silence,  and  then  the  squires 
rose  to  bid  their  hostess  good  night.  They  had  to  get 
the  archers  away  to  their  quarters  before  it  was  too 
late ;  the  Eector  took  his  leave  at  the  same  time,  and 
when  they  had  gone  Lady  Marland  went  downstairs 
herself  to  recall  her  household  to  discipline,  and  give 
her  orders  for  the  morning.  Aubrey  she  left  behind 
to  look  after  Sir  Henry:  besides,  while  anything 
remained  to  be  told  of  the  victory,  it  would  have 
been  impossible  to  tear  her  away  from  the  hearing  of  it. 


XL 

THE  five  who  remained  re-grouped  themselves  more 
closely  round  the  hearth.  Aubrey  moved  Lord  Bryan 
into  the  seat  her  aunt  had  just  left,  and  took  his  place 
by  Sir  Henry,  who  was  still  musing  with  his  eyebrows 
lifted  wearily,  and  his  eyes  cast  down  upon  the  floor. 
Stephen  sat  on  his  other  side,  and  Harry  stood  in  front 
of  the  fire  cracking  walnuts,  with  the  air  of  one  who 
is  biding  his  time.  He  was  silent  during  the  moment 
or  two  of  coming  and  going  at  the  door ;  when  it  had 
finally  closed  behind  Lady  Marland  and  the  Kector,  he 
looked  up  and  said  to  his  father — 

"  Now  that  the  clerical  party  have  left  us,  perhaps 
you  would  like  to  hear  the  rest  of  that  good  man  the 
Cardinal" 

"Eh?"  said  Sir  Henry,  rousing  himself.  "What 
was  that,  Harry  ?  I  forget." 

"  It  was  nothing  very  much,  but  it  pleased  some  of 
us  a  good  deal.  I  told  you  how  the  Cardinal  of 
Perigord  wasted  a  whole  day  of  our  time  in  expounding 
to  us  the  doctrine  of  the  Church  on  the  wickedness 
of  war,  and  rebuking  us  for  wanting  to  fight.  Well, 
after  all  that,  and  after  posing  as  the  impartial  friend 

295 


296  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

of  both  sides,  what  do  you  suppose  the  old  red  fox  did  ? 
He  went  off  to  Poitiers  himself,  as  sorrowful  and  as 
sanctimonious  as  you  please,  but  he  left  all  his  own 
people,  except  his  chaplains  and  secretary,  to  do  their 
best  against  us,  fighting  in  the  King's  division.     Half 
of  them  were  under  his  own  nephew,  Sir  Eobert  do 
Duras,  and  the  rest  with  his  underling,  the  Castellan 
of  Amposta.     When  the  final  smash  came,  the  Cas- 
tellan was  one  of  the  first  prisoners  brought  in.    The 
Prince  was  naturally  furious  to   see  him  there,  and 
ordered  him  to  be  beheaded  on  the  spot.     While  they 
were  hunting  for  the  provost-marshal  and  a  log,  the 
wretched  Castellan  tried  to   beg  off.     'No  no ! '  the 
Prince  said.     'People  employed  by  the  Church,  who 
come  and  go  in  treaty  for  peace,  ought  not  in  reason 
to  bear  arms  or  to  fight  on  either  side ;  and  if  they 
do,  they  must  pay  forfeit  like  any  other  felons.'     But 
then  Chandos  reminded  him  that  he  would  have  plenty 
of  time  later,  and  just  now  there  were  many  other 
things  of  more  importance  to  think  of.     So  he  went 
on,  and    left    the    Castellan,  for  he   never   can  say 
'no'  to  Chandos;   but  they  had  not  gone  a  hundred 
yards  further  when  they  came  on  Sir  Eobert  de  Duras 
himself  lying  dead  under  some  trees.    The  fellow  had 
even  had  the  bare-faced  impudence  to  take  his  banner 
into  action,  and  there  it  was  lying  by  him  with  a 
dozen    of  his   men,  all    as    dead    as    their   master. 


THE  ETHICS  OF  POITIERS  297 

'Here,  at  any  rate,  is  something  for  the  Cardinal,' 
says  the  Prince,  grimly.  '  There  is  nothing  to  wait 
for  this  time,  I  think,  Chandos ; '  and  he  made  them 
take  up  Duras's  body  just  as  it  was,  and  carry  it  into 
Poitiers  to  the  Cardinal  on  a  shield,  with  this  message : 
'  The  Prince  of  Wales's  thanks  to  the  Cardinal  of 
Perigord  for  his  courteous  and  Christian  endeavours, 
and  he  salutes  him  by  this  token.' " 

There  was  a  moment's  silence:  the  hearers  were 
evidently  all  impressed  by  the  story,  but  no  two  of 
them  in  quite  the  same  way. 

"  Well,  father,"  said  Harry,  presently,  "  what  do 
you  think  of  that  ?  " 

Sir  Henry  answered  one  half  the  question  only. 
"  There  can  be  no  doubt,"  he  said,  "  that  the  Church- 
men were  entirely  in  the  wrong." 

"  Yes,"  said  Aubrey,  "  the  Prince  was  right  there ; 
but  I  cannot  help  wishing  he  had  not  sent  that 
message.  It  seems  to  me  somehow  to  be  inconsistent 
with  his  behaviour  to  the  King — that  was  splendid." 

"  Oh !  "  replied  Harry,  in  a  tone  of  disappointment 
and  remonstrance.  "  If  you  are  going  to  talk  of  con- 
sistency, we  are  all  inconsistent  at  times;  and  the 
Prince,  after  all,  is  a  man  like  the  rest  of  us." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,"  said  Stephen, 
"  because  from  what  I  have  heard  he  seems  to  be  even 
more  interesting  as  a  character  than  as  a  commander ; 


298  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

and  I  have  been  wondering  whether  I  might  ask  some 
questions  about  him  without  offence." 

"Ask  away,"  replied  Harry,  with  unmeasured 
confidence.  "  If  you  get  one  shot  home,  I'll  say  you've 
a  keen  eye." 

Lord  Bryan,  who  had  been  listening  to  the  con- 
versation in  silence,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  red 
glow  of  the  crumbling  logs,  now  turned  slowly  in  his 
big  chair,  so  as  to  face  the  speakers.  Stephen  saw  the 
movement,  and  was  embarrassed  by  it ;  but  it  was  not 
in  his  nature  to  shrink  from  any  argument  against 
any  odds.  Besides,  he  had  been  longing  all  evening 
for  an  opportunity  to  talk  with  this  distinguished 
soldier  and  diplomatist,  who  at  thirty-seven  had 
already  fought  in  three  great  wars,  held  two  governor- 
ships, and  kept  the  Great  Seal  of  England ;  and  who 
carried  himself  with  an  unconscious  air  of  greatness 
that  seemed  to  leave  his  friend  and  contemporary, 
Harry  Marland,  half  a  lifetime  behind  him. 

"  What  I  mean,"  Stephen  said,  "  is  this.  I  feel,  as 
Aubrey  does — only  I  feel  it  in  more  ways  than  one — 
that  there  is  an  inconsistency  in  the  Prince's  behaviour 
and  ideas.  His  chief  characteristics  seem  to  clash  with 
each  other,  and  I  cannot  help  wondering  whether  this 
is  because  some  of  them  are  the  man  himself,  and 
some  only  put  on,  or  at  any  rate,  less  real  than  the 
others.  I  am  not  criticizing,  you  understand;  I  am 


THE  ETHICS  OP  POITIERS  299 

only  inquiring.  His  most  undoubtedly  genuine  feeling, 
I  suppose,  is  his  love  of  fighting  ? " 

"  Eight ! "  replied  Harry,  with  warm  approval ; 
"  there  is  nothing  put  on  there." 

"Then  he  seems  also  to  have  a  great  love  of 
pageantry,  a  sort  of  romantic  feeling  for  the  sound 
and  colour  and  fame  of  war." 

"  Well  ?    We  all  have,  haven't  we  ? " 

"  Possibly,"  said  Stephen ;  "  but  some  of  us  wish  we 
had  not.  The  Prince  himself,  when  the  fighting  is 
over,  and  he  has  got  the  best  of  it,  professes  a  totally 
different  creed;  he  puts  courage  and  pride  away,  and 
brings  out  a  most  elaborate  courtesy  and  humility  in 
their  place.  Are  they  equally  part  of  the  man 
himself?" 

"  Yes ! "  replied  Harry,  defiantly. 

"No,"  said  Lord  Bryan  at  the  same  instant,  in  a 
quiet  tone,  full  of  meaning. 

Stephen  looked  from  one  to  the  other. 

"  Not  equally,"  Lord  Bryan  explained  ;  "  they  are 
the  man  himself,  the  most  real  thing  about  him.  You 
hardly  believe  that  ?  Let  me  tell  you  one  more  saying 
of  his,  the  most  significant  of  all.  When  the  French 
King  was  first  brought  to  him  he  offered,  quite 
naturally  and  simply,  to  help  him  off  with  his  armour. 
The  King  said  with  great  dignity,  '  Thank  you,  cousin, 
but  after  this  it  is  not  for  you  to  serve  me ;  no  Prince 


300  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

has  ever  won  such  honour  in  a  single  day.'  The 
Prince  was  touched  to  the  quick ;  he  cannot  bear  that 
his  honour  should  be  another's  misfortune.  He  said 
in  a  very  low  voice,  '  God  forgive  me  this  victory.' 
The  King  evidently  did  not  understand :  he  did  not 
know  the  man ;  but  I  think  I  may  claim  that  I  do, 
and  I  say  that  he  was  never  more  himself  than  at 
that  moment." 

"  So  do  I,"  cried  Aubrey,  passionately,  "  and  so  do 
you,  Stephen.  You  know  that  was  not  acting;  you 
know  that  no  one  could  ever  have  invented  anything 
so  beautiful." 

Stephen  felt  himself  flush;  for  a  moment  it  was 
as  though  the  warm  current  from  her  heart  was  beating 
through  his  own  veins. 

"  I  agree,"  he  said ;  "  that  was  fine,  and  it  was 
certainly  instinctive.  He  seems  to  be  made  up  of 
impulses;  but  that  only  increases  the  difficulty.  Is 
it  not  extraordinary  that  the  same  man  should  make 
such  a  reply  to  one  of  his  defeated  prisoners,  and 
order  off  another  to  be  executed  in  cold  blood  ? " 

"  That  is  what  I  felt,"  she  replied ;  "  but  I  suppose, 
as  Harry  says,  that  when  we  act  on  impulse  we  are 
often  inconsistent.  What  do  you  say,  Guy  ?  " 

"  You  have  not  got  to  the  bottom  of  it  yet,  I 
think,"  said  Lord  Bryan.  "  The  Prince  is  impulsive 
by  nature,  but  he  is  no  longer  the  boy  he  was  at 


THE  ETHICS  OP  POITIERS  301 

Cressy.  He  has  thought  things  out,  and  though  his 
actions  are  still  instinctive,  they  are  very  far  from 
being  haphazard  or  inconsistent.  I  do  not  say  that 
he  is  perfect ;  I  think  he  went  over  the  line  when 
he  sent  that  message  to  the  Cardinal ;  but  you  must 
remember  that  he  was  doubly  tempted — first,  because 
one  of  his  most  cherished  principles  had  been  violated, 
and  secondly,  because  the  offender  was  his  old  antago- 
nist, the  Church." 

"  What  ?  "  cried  Stephen—"  his  antagonist  ?  That 
makes  him  a  more  splendid  riddle  than  ever.  I  had 
always  thought  of  him  as  unusually  devout." 

"  So  he  is,"  replied  Lord  Bryan.  "  If  any  man  was 
ever  born  a  Christian,  he  was.  But  on  the  point  of 
war,  he  no  more  accepts  the  Church's  view  of  Christi- 
anity than  you  do,  or  I,  or  any  other  Englishman  who 
is  honest  with  himself.  He  does  not  believe  that  war 
is  always  unlawful ;  he  knows  that  all  existence  is  a 
struggle,  that  we  love  fighting  because  it  is  the  savour 
of  life  itself,  and  that  in  this  world  of  forces  every- 
thing must  depend  on  force  in  the  last  resort.  The 
time  of  peace  may  come,  and  no  one  prays  for  it  more 
sincerely ;  but  that  will  be  the  time  of  perfection,  and 
in  the  mean  time  right  must  be  righted,  and  wrong 
ended." 

"Every  nation,"  said  Stephen,  "being,  of  course, 
right  in  its  own  view.  Does  not  that  bring  you  to 


302  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

arbitration   between  communities,  just   as  we    have 
justice  now  between  man  and  man  ?  " 

He  feared  he  had  spoken  too  keenly,  but  Lord 
Bryan  parried  the  thrust  with  unruffled  ease. 

"Who  is  to  be  the  arbitrator?  The  Church,  of 
course.  Let  us  forget  the  Cardinal  of  Perigord,  and 
grant  the  impartiality  of  the  Church.  How  is  the 
judgment  to  be  enforced  ?  Would  you  excommunicate 
a  whole  nation  ? " 

"  I  agree  that  the  Church  is  out  of  the  question," 
replied  Stephen;  "but  a  jury  of  Kings  would  have 
power  to  carry  out  their  own  decrees." 

"  That  means  no  more  than  an  alliance  of  the  ayes 
against  the  noes  ;  or,  possibly,  of  all  against  one.  But 
I  cannot  help  thinking  that  there  are  points  on  which 
a  nation  would  rather  fight  the  whole  world  single- 
handed  than  obey.  Then  I  wonder  whether  your  jury 
of  Kings  would  be  always  right  and  always  dis- 
interested ?  May  there  not  be  cases  too  difficult  for 
any  judge?  If  Solomon  himself  were  here,  he  could 
not  fail  to  give  a  decision  in  favour  of  King  Edward's 
claim  to  the  crown  of  France ;  but  if  you  and  I  were 
Frenchmen,  should  we  submit  to  it  ?  " 

"  The  Prince  would  not,  I  am  sure,"  said  Stephen, 
smiling.  "  But  he  would  be  acting  merely  as  the 
natural  man.  How  does  he  bring  war  within  the  law 
of  Christianity  ? " 


THE  ETHICS  OF  POITIERS  303 

"I  think  he  would  answer  that  by  saying  that 
Christianity  is  not  a  law,  but  a  light ;  a  hope  for  the 
world,  but  a  way  for  the  Christian  only,  who  is  not 
of  the  world,  though  he  is  in  it.  It  is  an  hypocrisy  to 
pretend  that  the  world  is  Christian.  What  good  can 
come  of  hypocrisy  ? — of  nations  professing  principles 
in  which,  as  nations,  they  do  not  believe  ?  The  true 
Church,  which  is  the  body  of  the  faithful,  and  nothing 
else,  cannot  be  strengthened  by  any  such  professions ; 
the  official  Church  encourages  them  because  it  thereby 
enlarges  its  own  borders,  but  it  brings  both  confusion 
and  dishonesty  into  human  affairs  by  doing  so." 

The  argument  pleased  Stephen  as  much  as  it 
puzzled  him. 

"I  agree  about  the  Church,"  he  said  warmly, 
"  but  I  am  still  in  the  dark  about  the  Prince.  Is  it 
his  creed  that  a  man  should  be  a  Christian  in 
private,  and  a  savage  in  public  ?  " 

"Savage  is  a  difficult  word,"  said  Lord  Bryan, 
pleasantly.  "  May  I  change  it  ?  May  I  put  the  case 
in  this  way  ?  There  are  among  men  some  masculine 
virtues,  and  some  feminine.  Where  the  masculine 
alone  have  been  cultivated,  life  has  been  disordered, 
perhaps  savage.  Christianity  has  given  us  the  femi- 
nine virtues ;  the  Church  would  have  us  practise  them 
to  the  exclusion  of  the  masculine.  We  soldiers  believe 
thai  this  would  only  lead  to  disorder  of  the  same  kind." 


304  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

"You  make  Christianity,  in  short,  a  counsel  of 
perfection,  to  he  postponed  indefinitely  ? " 

"  We  should  do  so,  but  for  chivalry." 

"  Let  me  understand  you,"  said  Stephen.  "  Chivalry, 
as  I  have  seen  it  from  a  distance,  I  have  taken  to 
mean  a  love  of  fighting,  a  love  of  pageantry,  and  a 
fantastic  love  of  women,  mixed  into  a  rather  unwhole- 
some ferment." 

"  You  have  lived  abroad,"  replied  Lord  Bryan ; 
"  there  is  no  place  in  England  for  that  kind  of  folly, 
and,  so  far  as  I  know,  there  never  has  been.  For  us 
chivalry  is  a  plain  rule  of  conduct,  by  which  a  man 
may  live  in  a  world  of  men,  without  savagery  and 
without  monkery." 

"  Good ! "  exclaimed  Stephen ;  "  but  how  ? " 

"  Look  at  the  Prince,"  said  Lord  Bryan ;  "  it  is 
written  large  in  him.  He  is  pious  and  courteous,  the 
brother  of  all  brave  men,  the  servant  of  the  weak,  the 
beaten,  and  the  suffering.  In  short,  he  Joves  God  with 
all  his  heart,  and  his  neighbour  as  himself.  What  is 
that  ? " 

"  That  is  Christianity ;  but  I  ask  you  again,  how 
does  loving  your  neighbour  come  to  include  fighting 
him,  or  taking  his  life  ?  " 

"  I  reply  with  another  question.  Are  you  not  con- 
fusing the  unreal  with  the  real — putting  the  material 
before  the  spiritual  ?  The  warfare  of  every  one  of  us 


THE  ETHICS  OF  POITIERS  305 

must  end  in  death;  we  need  not  love  a  man  less 
because  it  falls  to  us  to  strike  the  final  stroke.  It  is 
only  the  hatred,  the  treachery,  the  selfishness,  that 
make  the  crime  of  murder ;  and  what  injury  can  the 
real  man  suffer  except  those  inflicted  by  himself  ?  " 

"Does  your  Prince  act  up  to  his  creed  in  that?" 
asked  Stephen.  "  I  know,  of  course,  that  he  is  fear- 
less of  himself;  but  would  he,  for  example,  take  the 
death  of  a  friend  as  no  injury  ?  " 

"  A  man  is  no  soldier,"  replied  Lord  Bryan,  "  unless 
he  remembers  every  morning,  when  he  wakes,  that 
this  may  be  the  day  on  which  his  life  or  his  comrade's 
will  be  required  of  him.  No  one  could  face  that 
parting  better  than  the  Prince.  I  know,  because 
I  saw  him  say  good-bye  to  Audley." 

"  Audley  ?  "  asked  Sir  Henry.  "  Is  James  Audley 
dead  ?  You  did  not  tell  us  that." 

"No,"  said  Guy,  "when  I  left  he  was  making  a 
good  recovery;  but  if  he  did  not  die,  it  was  not 
because  he  was  not  ready.  When  we  were  setting 
forward  to  meet  the  final  attack,  he  came  to  the  Prince 
and  volunteered  to  do  what  he  could  to  break  the 
French  line  before  it  reached  us.  I  suppose  his  offer 
might  be  called  fantastic ;  but  it  was  very  coolly  made 
and  very  effectually  carried  out." 

"  Tell  us  ! "  said  Aubrey,  imperiously. 
"  There  is  really  nothing  to  tell ;  he  came  up  and 

x 


306  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

said, '  You  know,  sir,  I  vowed  that  I  would  lead  the 
charge  if  ever  we  met  the  French  King.'  He  knelt 
on  one  knee,  as  if  to  ask  a  favour.  The  Prince's  face 
set  like  iron.  '  Very  well,  James,'  he  said.  '  Good-bye, 
and  God  bless  you.'  There  was  no  time  to  be  lost. 
Audley  got  up  and  went  down  the  hill  with  four 
squires  behind  him.  We  saw  him  divide  the  rush 
for  a  moment  like  a  rock  thrown  down  into  a 
stream ;  then  they  re-formed  and  went  over  him,  but 
they  came  on  perceptibly  slower  and  less  steadily." 

"  How  many  were  killed  ?  "  asked  Aubrey. 

"  Of  Audley  and  his  men  ?  Not  one  of  the  five, 
by  George  ! "  cried  Harry.  "  The  squires  picked  him 
up,  good  men,  and  we  picked  up  the  squires.  They 
made  their  fortunes;  Audley  divided  between  them 
all  the  land  the  Prince  gave  him,  that  same  evening." 

"  Did  the  Prince  approve  of  that  ? " 

"  He  gave  Audley  as  much  again,  and  was  glad  to 
do  it.  I  think  he  was  more  grateful  to  those  four 
than  even  their  master  was  ;  he  loves  Sir  James  better 
than  any  reasonable  man  could  love  himself." 

"  It  is  a  fine  character,"  said  Stephen.  "  Still,"  he 
went  on  in  the  tone  of  one  not  yet  convinced,  "  it  is 
strange  to  see  so  much  feeling  side  by  side  with  so 
much  hardness." 

"  Pardon  me,"  answered  Lord  Bryan,  "  if  I  change 
your  word  again.  He  is  not  so  much  hard  as  stern. 


THE  ETHICS  OF   POITIERS  307 

Injure  him  personally,  and  lie  will  give  you  good  for 
evil ;  break  a  rule  of  the  game,  and  he  will  exact  the 
forfeit  to  the  uttermost,  as  he  would  expect  to  have 
it  exacted  from  himself.  It  is  only  on  such  terms 
that  the  code  can  be  preserved ;  you  may  forgive  the 
offender,  but  if  you  remit  the  penalty  you  spare  your 
own  feelings  at  the  expense  of  those  who  come  after 
you.  So  he  would  have  made  an  example  of  the 
Castellan  of  Amposta,  as  he  always  would  of  any  one 
who  played  false — man,  woman,  or  child.  If  a  whole 
town  went  over  to  the  enemy,  I  believe  he  would 
execute  them  all  relentlessly.  His  people  know  the 
conditions  on  which  they  serve  him ;  they  know  that 
he  asks  nothing  from  them  that  he  is  not  prepared 
to  give  himself." 

"You  think  they  really  understand  him?"  said 
Stephen. 

"  Whether  they  know  it  or  not,  they  understand 
him ;  you  would  not  wonder  if  you  had  heard  him 
speaking  to  the  men  on  the  morning  of  the  battle. 
'  It  is  our  business,'  he  said,  '  to  lead,  and  yours  to 
follow  keenly,  mind  as  well  as  body.  If  we  come  off 
with  life  and  victory,  we  shall  be  better  friends  than 
ever;  if  the  chances  are  against  us,  and  we  go  the 
way  of  all  flesh,  remember  this,  that  you  shall  never 
be  forgotten  or  dishonoured;  whatever  our  rank,  we 
will  all  drink  of  the  same  cup  with  you  to-day.'  " 


308  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

Stephen's  guard  was  broken  at  last;  the  words 
went  through  his  heart.  He  knew  that  Guy  was 
right ;  this  man  had  laid  hold  on  life  itself ;  no  time 
or  change  would  ever  still  the  reverberation  of  such 
words.  He  sat  silent,  blinking  at  the  fire. 

"  Guy,"  said  Sir  Henry,  putting  out  his  hand  to 
the  wine  flagon,  "will  you  take  anything  more? 
Then  perhaps  you  would  like  to  go  up;  you  have 
had  a  long  day." 


XLI 

THE  two  soldiers  left  Gardenleigh  next  day,  in  almost 
opposite  directions.  Lord  Bryan  was  returning  to  take 
over  a  command  in  Devonshire ;  Harry  Marland,  who 
was  to  remain  only  a  few  weeks  in  England,  had  a 
longer  journey  before  him  into  Cheshire,  where  his 
wife  and  children  were  staying  at  his  father-in-law's 
house.  On  his  way  he  was  to  spend  a  night  at  Portis- 
head  with  his  brother  Edmund ;  but  his  parents  would 
not  hear  of  his  starting  until  the  last  possible  moment, 
and  in  order  to  leave  them  entirely  to  each  other's 
society,  Stephen  proposed  to  ride  with  Lord  Bryan 
for  some  little  distance  upon  his  journey  westward, 
and  return  at  his  leisure  during  the  afternoon. 

"  I  suppose,"  he  said  to  Aubrey,  as  they  were  leav- 
ing the  house,  "  that  I  may  speak  to  him  about  Kalph'a 
affairs  ? " 

"  To  Guy  ? "  she  replied.  "  Of  course ;  but — you 
know  who  his  wife  was  ?  " 

Stephen  hesitated  and  looked  round. 

She  lowered  her  voice.  "  The  Bishop's  niece ;  hia 
sister  Katharine  was  her  mother." 

309 


310  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

"  Lady  Salisbury  ?  Then  he  will  have  great  influence 
with  the  Bishop  ? " 

"  Very  great ;  but  he  may  not  agree  with  us.  He 
has  his  own  view  about  everything." 

The  prospect  of  the  discussion  pleased  Stephen ;  he 
smiled  and  nodded  to  her  confidently.  She  shook  her 
head  in  reply. 

"  Be  careful ! "  she  said.  "  I  should  like  you  to 
understand  one  another." 

So  for  the  first  part  of  the  ride  he  set  himself  to 
observe  rather  than  to  talk.  His  reflections  in  every 
way  bore  out  the  estimate  of  his  companion  which  he 
had  formed  the  night  before.  This  was  an  altogether 
different  type  from  any  of  those  which  he  had  hitherto 
met  with,  and  it  was  the  more  interesting  to  him 
because  it  was  the  type  of  a  finished  character,  and 
one  evidently  developed  in  circumstances  of  which  he 
himself  had  had  no  experience.  The  original  nature 
of  the  man  was  visible  in  the  clear,  frank  eyes,  the 
singularly  sweet  and  ready  smile,  the  simple  courtesy 
of  his  manners;  but  there  was  added  to  all  this  an 
ease  and  certainty  which  ran  through  every  act  and 
word,  and  which  was  far  too  perfect,  Stephen  felt,  to 
have  come  to  any  man  by  nature.  His  movements 
were  neither  slow  -nor  hasty,  his  replies  were  never 
hesitating,  yet  never  unconsidered ;  he  talked  and  rode 
with  the  same  mastery,  keeping  an  even  pace  and 


LORD  BRYAN'S  VIEW  311 

meeting  every  emergency  with  a  faultless  seat  and  the 
lightest  of  hands.  He  had  all  the  soldierly  directness 
of  Harry  Marland  without  any  of  his  crudeness ;  and 
as  much  dignity  and  power,  Stephen  thought,  as  the 
Bishop,  but  with  less  self-consciousness  and  a  total 
absence  of  pride.  Edmund  was  nearer  to  him  there, 
and  nearer  too,  perhaps,  in  other  ways ;  but  the  world 
that  Edmund  could  only  conquer  by  agony  and  sur- 
render seemed  to  be  for  Lord  Bryan  a  brilliant  and 
familiar  tilt-yard,  where  he  played  out  the  game  of  life 
with  perfect  skill  and  fearlessness.  These  are  seldom 
attributes  of  the  deepest  kind  of  character ;  but  if  Guy 
had  his  limitations,  Stephen  found  no  trace  of  super- 
ficiality or  slightness  in  him.  On  the  contrary,  he 
seemed  to  possess  some  secret,  some  wisdom  hidden  in 
his  own  heart,  which  made  existence  so  easy  and  so 
unperplexed ;  his  face  was  calm  rather  than  sanguine, 
as  if  he  saw  both  good  and  evil  days  coming,  and 
looked  beyond  them  both. 

The  power  of  command  he  certainly  had  in  a  very 
unusual  degree,  as  Stephen  saw  when  they  came  into 
Selwood  and  found  the  archers  hardly  yet  ready  to 
march.  Some  of  them  had  not  quite  recovered  from 
the  potations  of  the  night  before,  others  had  been  with 
difficulty  retrieved  from  odd  corners  of  the  town ;  two 
of  the  squires  were  disputing  over  some  misunder- 
standing of  their  orders,  and  a  crowd  of  idlers  was  in 


312  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

everybody's  way  at  once.  But  when  Lord  Bryan 
appeared,  the  tangle  unravelled  itself  in  a  moment ; 
his  voice  expressed  neither  surprise  nor  dissatisfaction, 
but  his  air  of  quiet  expectation  cleared  away  all  diffi- 
culties. They  seemed  to  vanish,  not  because  he  saw 
them,  but  just  because  he  did  not  see  them.  His  men 
appeared  to  regain  their  discipline  and  self-respect 
almost  without  an  effort  of  their  own ;  they  were  what 
their  commander  made  them,  and  followed  him,  as  the 
Black  Prince  had  bidden  them,  with  their  minds  as 
well  as  their  bodies. 

Their  first  stage  was  a  comparatively  short  one, 
but  it  was  not  till  they  were  nearing  the  end  of  it 
that  Stephen  ventured  to  approach  the  subject  of 
Ralph  Tremur. 

"I  suppose,"  he  asked  his  companion,  "that 
your  road  will  be  the  same  as  that  by  which  the 
Bishop  travelled  when  he  left  Gardenleigh  not  long 
ago?" 

"  Exactly  the  same  as  far  as  Exeter,"  replied  Lord 
Bryan,  "  and  probably  with  the  same  halts ;  he  and  I 
ride  very  much  the  same  pace." 

"I  saw  that  he  rode  more  like  a  soldier  than  a 
priest,"  said  Stephen,  "and  I  thought  he  had  quite 
a  military  idea  of  discipline  too." 

"  Carew  here  will  tell  you  about  that,"  said  Lord 
Bryan,  calling  up  the  squire  who  was  riding  nearest  to 


LORD  BRYAN'S  VIEW  313 

him.     "  William,  you  can  give  us  the  story  about  the 
insurrection  of  the  Grenvilles  ?  " 

The  move  was  too  opportune  to  be  accidental,  but 
there  was  so  little  sign  of  intention  that  Stephen,  rather 
to  his  own  surprise,  accepted  the  check  without  a 
struggle,  and  occupied  himself  with  the  Grenville 
history  for  what  remained  of  the  ride.  But  he  deter- 
mined not  to  let  himself  be  baulked  when  the  midday 
halt  was  called,  for  that  would  be  his  last  opportunity 
He  was  relieved,  therefore,  to  find,  on  reaching  the  inn, 
that  Lord  Bryan  and  he  were  to  dine  alone  together. 

"Now,"  said  Guy,  as  soon  as  the  service  was 
finished,  "  I  think  you  had  something  to  tell  me  about 
Ealph  Tremur." 

Stephen  had  intended  to  be  very  cautious,  and  to 
confine  himself  as  far  as  possible  to  the  role,  of  inquirer ; 
but  there  was  something  about  his  companion's  frank- 
ness which  compelled  him  to  imitate  it.  He  spoke  out 
at  once  and  felt,  too,  that  he  was  speaking  with  a 
simplicity  and  ease  that  were  above  his  ordinary  level. 

Guy  heard  him  to  the  end  with  great  attention, 
asking  a  question  here  and  there,  but  with  no  sign  of 
bias.  When  the  whole  story  was  before  him,  he  turned 
a  little  so  as  to  face  Stephen  more  fully,  and  began  to 
speak  without  hesitation. 

"  You  may  be  thinking,"  he  said,  "  that  my  relation- 
ship to  the  Bishop  is  likely  to  influence  me  in  his 


314  THE   OLD  COUNTRY 

favour.  If  so,  I  beg  that  you  will  put  any  such  idea 
out  of  your  mind  from  the  beginning.  It  is  part  of 
your  case — Ealph's  case — that  the  Bishop  has  been 
hard  and  overbearing.  I  need  not  commit  myself ;  I 
only  remind  you  that  if  that  is  his  character,  as  you 
believe,  you  may  be  sure  that  after  many  years  of 
intimacy  it  cannot  have  escaped  me.  As  to  his 
position,  the  Marlands  will  tell  you  that  I  am  no 
slave  to  authority  of  any  kind,  though  I  am  before 
everything  a  servant;  the  cause  I  serve  has  for  long 
been  that  of  the  small  against  the  great,  the  humble 
against  the  powerful." 

"  The  Prince  ?  "  asked  Stephen,  in  surprise. 

"  The  cause  of  the  Prince  is  the  struggling  cause — 
that  of  the  Commons.  I  am  used  to  rebellion  against 
dignitaries,  and  I  should  find  it  easy  to  sympathize 
with  Ealph  if  it  were  not  for  doubts  about  the  good- 
ness of  his  quarrel." 

Stephen  flushed.  "You  do  not  sympathize  with 
him — you  do  not  like  his  religious  position  ? " 

"  I  know  nothing  of  theology,"  replied  Lord  Bryan ; 
"  but  from  my  point  of  view  it  almost  seems  as  if  the 
man  had  no  religious  position,  and  therefore  no  position 
worth  fighting  for." 

"Oh,  surely!"  said  Stephen.  "He  opposes  the 
Bishop  ;  if  his  adversary  has  a  position,  so  has  he." 

"  I  do  not  think  it  follows.     My  view  may  be  a 


LORD  BRYAN'S  VIEW  315 

wrong  one  or  a  narrow  one,  but  it  is  the  view  of  the 
best  men  of  our  generation.  In  that  view  we  live, 
and  we  have  the  right  to  live,  only  by  virtue  of 
our  devotion  to  something  greater  than  ourselves.  I 
heard  it  well  put  by  a  monk  not  long  ago — ad  seroi- 
endum  venisti,  non  ad  regendum:  'you  are  here  to 
serve,  not  to  rule.'  Is  not  that  a  true  saying  ? " 

Stephen's  thoughts  flew  back  to  the  morning's 
scene  in  Selwood  and  his  reflections  on  it. 

"It  may  be  true,"  he  said:  "I  have  not  thought 
of  it;  but  I  confess  I  am  surprised  to  hear  it  from 
you." 

Guy  left  the  personal  point  untouched.  "  But  look 
around  you,"  he  said  earnestly;  "look  at  the  lives 
you  know.  The  Bishop,  whatever  you  may  say  of  his 
methods,  has  served  the  Church  for  fifty  years,  as  Sir 
Henry  has  served  the  King;  Edmund,  I  often  think, 
stands  higher  still — he  is  the  servant  of  God.  Ealph 
alone  follows  no  cause  but  his  own,  and  no  man  of 
whom  that  is  true  can  have  any  reality;  he  has  no 
unity  in  him,  he  is  a  wandering  fire — an  ignis  fatuus 
of  the  marshes." 

"  Ealph  serves  truth,"  said  Stephen,  "  and  that  is 
to  serve  mankind." 

"  It  may  be,"  replied  Lord  Bryan ;  "  but  what  has 
he  ever  established?  Has  not  his  life  been  spent  in 
denying  ?  What  is  the  truth  that  lies  behind  all  these 


316  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

denials?     What  is  it  that  he  has   not   denied?     In 
what  does  he  find  his  peace  ?  " 

At  another  time,  and  against  another  antagonist, 
Stephen  might  have  found  abundant  resources  for 
argument  and  even  for  eloquence.  He  was  under  no 
temptation,  even  as  it  was,  to  give  up  his  belief  in 
Ealph  and  in  the  righteousness  of  his  cause;  but  he 
was  confused  by  a  kind  of  echo  in  his  own  mind  which 
seemed  to  double  the  force  of  what  he  heard.  He 
remembered  how  Edmund  had  said  that  there  was  no 
proposition  known  which  Ealph  had  not  denied  at  one 
time  or  another,  and  how  Ralph  himself  in  three 
terrible  words  had  accepted  the  life  that  "knew  not 
what  peace  was."  He  saw,  too,  that  his  difficulty 
came  in  part  from  the  power  which  Guy  possessed, 
of  compelling  him  for  the  moment  to  look  at  the 
whole  question  from  a  point  of  view  which  was  strange 
to  him.  Left  to  himself,  he  would  no  doubt  be  able  to 
bring  it  into  focus,  to  find  the  necessary  reconciliation ; 
but  while  the  foreground  was  filled  with  so  splendid 
a  figure  he  was  distracted  and  almost  dazzled.  He 
only  knew  that  it  was  impossible  to  meet  this  man 
as  an  enemy;  and  if  he  could  have  done  so,  he  felt, 
as  he  looked  him  in  the  face,  that  he  would  be  en- 
countering armour  better  proven  than  his  own.  Guy's 
last  word  dwelt  in  his  mind — "  In  what  does  he  find 
his  peace?" — and  insensibly  drew  the  whole  current 


LORD  BRYAN'S  VIEW  317 

of  his  thought  away  from  Ealph  to  the  personality 
living  and  shining  before  him. 

Lord  Bryan's  voice  broke  in  upon  his  reverie.  "  I 
am  afraid,"  he  was  saying,  "  that  it  is  almost  time  for 
us  to  say  good-bye.  I  see  my  men  getting  under 
way." 

Stephen  followed  him  to  the  window,  and  they 
stood  for  a  moment  watching  the  archers  as  they 
prepared  to  move  off. 

"  What  do  they  think  they  serve  ?  "  asked  Stephen. 

"  They  could  not  tell  you,  you  think  ?  Perhaps 
not ;  a  soldier  is  generally  thoughtless  when  he  speaks, 
and  dumb  when  he  thinks.  But  you  must  not  be 
deceived  by  that;  these  fellows  serve  their  country, 
and  they  know  it,  in  a  way  of  their  own.  After  all, 
we  too  have  each  our  own  meaning  for  the  name  of 
England." 

He  stopped  a  little  abruptly  for  once,  but  when 
Stephen  turned  he  went  on  in  the  same  tone. 

"  You  will  find  in  any  thatch  some  reeds  drier  than 
the  rest ;  but  fire  is  fire  to  all  of  them,  and  the  slower 
stuff  takes  it  from  the  quicker." 

"  Do  you  not  think,"  asked  Stephen,  "  that  they 
will  come  to  learn,  in  the  same  way,  a  feeling  wider 
and  deeper  than  mere  love  of  country  ?  " 

Lord  Bryan  smiled  and  took  a  lighter  tone.  "I 
had  no  idea,"  he  said,  "  that  you  were  so  old-fashioned 


318  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

you  will  wait  a  long  time  if  you  wait  for  that  river 
to  flow  uphill  again." 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,"  replied  Stephen.  "  They 
have  been  telling  me — and  I  have  seen  it  myself — that 
national  feeling  is  running  high  just  now  in  England. 
But  I  doubt  if  that  is  a  stream ;  to  me  it  looks  more 
like  a  tide,  which  flows  and  ebbs,  as  it  has  done  before, 
and  will  do  again  from  time  to  time." 

"I  will  meet  you  half  way,"  said  Lord  Bryan, 
smiling.  "  Let  us  call  it  a  tidal  river ;  that  gives 
you  the  ebb  and  flow,  and  leaves  me  the  natural  direc- 
tion of  the  current,  which  I  am  convinced  has  its 
source  somewhere  in  the  highlands  of  human  nature." 

Stephen  recognized,  not  without  pleasure,  that  in 
the  tactics  of  metaphor  he  had  met  his  equal;  but 
he  made  one  more  effort  to  save  the  position. 

"If  it  came  from  the  highlands  I  should  expect 
a  wider  and  purer  stream." 

"  It  will  widen  before  the  end,"  replied  Lord  Bryan ; 
"and  I  regret  your  other  word.  Perhaps  you  have 
been  hearing  some  loud  talk  from  those  who  stay  at 
home;  that  is  part  of  the  patriotism  which  looks  for 
what  it  can  get,  rather  than  what  it  can  give.  You 
should  speak  to  Aubrey  about  her  country." 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Stephen,  hurriedly, 
"  and  I  withdraw  that  word.  But  if  we  are  to  think 
of  giving,  would  it  not  be  better  to  begin  at  once  with 


LORD  BRYAN'S  VIEW  319 

giving  to  all?  Why  must  we  always  think  of  our- 
selves first?  A  pyramid  does  not  spring  from  its 
narrowest  point." 

"  No,"  said  Guy,  "  but  a  tree  does ;  and  human  life 
is  much  more  like  a  tree  than  a  pyramid.  Even  if 
you  are  to  build,  you  would  not  build  a  dozen  cities 
at  once.  Let  us  set  up  our  own  first,  and  make  it 
the  joy  of  the  whole  earth." 

"  Ah !  "  cried  Stephen,  "  you  come  near  me  there." 

"  I  am  glad,"  said  Guy,  "  for  I  am  afraid  our  talk 
must  end  there  for  the  present.  It  is  time  for  me  to 
be  gone.  Remember  if  ever  you  come  West  that  you 
have  friends  at  Tor  Bryan." 

Stephen  went  to  the  door  with  him,  and  waved  a 
cheerful  farewell  as  he  rode  away ;  but  when  he  turned 
to  call  for  his  own  horse  he  felt  as  if  his  day  had  lost 
the  sun. 


XLI1 

THE  shadow  continued  to  lie  upon  Stephen  through- 
out his  homeward  journey.  Thanks  to  his  horse's 
instinct,  or  to  some  equally  unconscious  knowledge 
of  his  own,  he  made  the  right  choice  at  every  turning ; 
but  he  saw  nothing  of  the  road,  and  could  not  have 
told  whether  or  not  he  had  ever  passed  that  way 
before.  Lord  Bryan's  visit,  though  it  had  been  in 
itself  a  bright  and  stirring  episode,  seemed  to  have 
roused  from  sleep  all  the  cares  that  lay  about  his 
path,  and  set  them  on  to  snarl  and  dog  his  footsteps 
afresh.  To  begin  with,  there  was  Ealph.  Nothing  had 
been  heard  of  Ealph  for  months,  and  nothing  need  be 
apprehended  at  this  moment  more  than  at  any  other ; 
yet  since  his  case  had  been  laid  before  Lord  Bryan, 
Stephen  felt  that  it  had  in  some  way  taken  a  turn 
for  the  worse.  This  impression,  he  reasoned  with 
himself,  was  a  mere  personal  illusion ;  but  the  trouble 
was  in  no  way  lightened  by  being  traced  to  his  own 
sense  of  failure  in  the  defence  of  Ealph  against  Guy's 
criticism.  Why  he  had  so  failed  he  could  not  now 
understand.  The  truth  of  Guy's  view  of  life  appeared 
to  him  upon  reflection  as  striking  as  ever,  but  it  no 

320 


STEPHEN  DOUBTS  321 

longer  seemed  to  afford  any  argument  against  Ralph 
or  in  favour  of  his  antagonist.     Where  there  is  untrue 
or   unjust   affirmation,   he    told    himself    indignantly, 
there,  for  the  sake  of  all  men,  there  must  be  some  one 
to  deny.     How  can  it  be  said  of  such  a  champion  that 
he  is  the  servant  of  none  ?     Is  it  no  service  that  one 
man  should  die  for  the  people?   still  more  that  he 
should  spend  his  life  in  that  barren  desert  of  denials 
which  Ealph  had  accepted  as  his  portion  ?     Is  it  not, 
he  might   have    asked  Lord  Bryan,   thanks  to  such 
humble  service  as  this,  that  you  and  those  whom  you 
hold  up  for  admiration  are  able  to  find  room  for  your 
souls  to  live  and  breathe  and  build  the  fearless  towers 
and  palaces  of  your  more  spiritual  imagination  ?     To 
this,  he  assured  himself,  there  was  no  answer ;  but  he 
remained  none  the  less  dissatisfied.     There,  after  all, 
stood  the  lofty  and  beautiful  life  that  Guy  and  his 
Prince  had  built — a  life  that  all  might  imitate;    and 
beside  it  the  work  of  opposition  and  negation,  however 
necessary,   however  courageous   and  devoted,   seemed 
a  meaner  and  less  ennobling  task,  and  one  not  alto- 
gether free  from  the  contamination  of  malevolent  zeal. 
Was  it  possible,  he  wondered  at  the  blackest  moment 
of  his  meditation,  that  the  Bishop's  theory  of  demoniac 
possession    had    some    reason  in  it,  after  all?     Was 
Ralph's  insane  fury  due  not  so  much  to  a  fault  in 
his  own  nature  as  to  the  presence  of  a  spirit  to  whom 

Y 


322  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

all  iconoclasts  are  inevitably  given  over,  and  whose 
influence  cannot  be  excluded  from  any  task  of  pure 
destruction,  even  when  it  is  a  very  citadel  of  tyranny 
and  falsehood  that  must  be  laid  in  ruin  ?  How  should 
any  nation,  under  the  leading  of  such  a  spirit,  establish 
or  even  conceive  a  type  of  society  which  might  endure 
for  the  admiration  of  the  whole  earth  ? 

Once  more  at  this  point  he  regretted  his  enforced 
parting  from  Guy.  It  had  moved  him  strongly  to  find 
in  this  man,  of  a  generation  so  far  from  his  own,  a 
touch  of  the  hope  and  the  enthusiasm  which  he  had 
come  to  regard  as  the  message  committed  in  a  special 
degree  to  himself,  and  practically,  as  he  assumed, 
unheard  of  in  the  world  before  the  century  in  which 
he  had  been  born.  Mere  Utopians  he  had  always 
disdained ;  he  had  claimed  to  preach  only  the  practical, 
and  even  to  foretell  facts.  Guy,  too,  was  no  dreamer 
of  mere  possibilities ;  he  wished  to  reform  life,  not  to 
re-make  it :  he  might  have  proved  to  have  a  real 
sympathy,  Stephen  thought,  with  his  own  outlook 
towards  the  'future.  But  there  again  the  thread  of 
his  reverie  caught  and  tangled  as  it  ran  off  the  skein ; 
Guy  had  declared  for  the  method  he  had  so  long 
decried — the  devotion  which  begins  at  home  and  runs 
the  risk  of  staying  there.  He  had  even  laughed  at 
Stephen's  cosmopolitan  ideal,  and  labelled  it  as 
"  old-fashioned  " — old-fashioned  five  centuries  before 


STEPHEN  DOUBTS  323 

it  had  come  in  vogue  in  Stephen's  world!  The  his- 
torian of  the  Future  groaned  with  the  pain  of  a  new 
suspicion — could  he  have  been  inventing  that  which 
was  not  new,  and  discovering  that  which  was  non- 
existent? Were  his  own  Uplands,  after  all,  in  no 
nearer  latitude  than  the  New  Atlantis  or  the  City  of 
the  Sun,  and  his  message  no  newer  than  the  other 
hopes  of  man  ? 

By  the  time  he  had  reached  this  point  he  was 
passing  through  the  town  of  Selwood.  As  he  climbed 
the  slope  on  the  far  side  of  the  market-place,  and 
struck  into  the  road  that  turned  to  the  left  along 
the  river,  he  was  vividly  reminded  of  his  first 
arrival  in  the  place,  and  his  meeting  with  Aubrey 
in  the  old  life.  He  remembered  then,  with  an  infinite 
sense  of  comfort,  that  whatever  might  be  the  true 
value  of  his  hopes  and  theories,  they  had,  at  any  rate, 
brought  him  near  to  her;  though  she,  like  Guy,  had 
withstood  him  in  the  name  of  patriotism,  she  had 
never  sided  with  the  forces  against  him,  or  lowered 
him  in  his  own  esteem.  In  the  warm  glow  of  this 
recollection  he  forgot  that  he  had  not  yet  wholly 
solved  the  mystery  in  which  her  present  life  was 
wrapped ;  or  rather,  he  had  unconsciously  changed  his 
view,  and  while  he  felt  his  own  feelings  coming  more 
and  more  into  line  with  hers,  he  had  almost  ceased 
to  demand  that  she  should  completely  draw  aside 


324  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

the  veil  that  lay  between  her  memory  and  his 
own. 

He  crossed  the  stream  at  a  quicker  pace,  and  was 
glad  to  find  himself  once  more  in  Gardenleigh  territory. 
The  sun  was  down  on  the  horizon  now,  and  the  flush 
in  the  sky  above  seemed  to  deepen  the  shadow  of 
twilight  under  the  October  woods  as  he  pressed  onwards 
up  the  southward  face  of  the  hill.  On  the  down 
above,  in  the  sombre  entrance  of  the  avenue,  he  could 
see  a  woman's  figure  leaning  wearily  against  the  wall, 
beside  the  gate.  It  was  Aubrey,  and  his  heart  stirred 
as  he  saw  that  she  was  waiting  for  him.  She  held 
open  the  gate  when  he  came  up,  and  as  he  passed 
through  he  saw  that  there  were  tears  upon  her  face.  In 
a  moment  he  had  dismounted  and  was  turning  towards 
her  with  his  bridle  on  his  arm;  but  before  he  could 
speak  she  had  buried  her  head  upon  his  shoulder. 

Lady  Marland  had  died  at  midday,  an  hour  after 
Harry  had  left  for  Portishead. 


XLIII 

THE  days  which  followed  were  darker  still.  Stephen 
had  had  no  previous  experience  of  the  preparations 
for  an  English  funeral,  and  there  seemed  to  him  to 
be  something  unnatural  about  the  gloom  that  lay  upon 
the  house;  it  had  the  deadening  oppression  of  a 
nightmare,  and  he  felt  at  times  as  though  it  would 
never  lift  again.  Edmund  and  Harry,  Aubrey  and 
himself — he  saw  them  all  busied  with  duties  which 
must  be  performed  neither  whole-heartedly  nor  half- 
heartedly, all  going  about  continually  under  the 
burden  of  a  meaningless  behaviour,  equally  far  from 
any  true  semblance  of  grief  or  joy.  A  tacit  and 
nerveless  consideration  for  each  other,  a  conventional 
regard  for  the  expectations  of  a  wider  circle — these 
cloudy  spectres  had  breathed  an  icy  mist  on  all  the 
more  human  feelings,  had  forbidden  sorrow  its  moments 
of  agony  and  relief,  its  free  expression  and  its  high- 
hearted resistance,  and  almost  seemed  for  the  time 
to  have  bound  life  about  with  the  winding-sheet  of 
the  dead,  stifling  every  voice  and  constraining  every 
movement  with  its  frigid  and  unlovely  folds. 

But  this  misery  of  deadness  was  not  to  last;  it 

325 


326  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

vanished  for  ever  at  the  moment  when  they  all  stood 
in  Gardenleigh  Church  and  heard  the  first  words  of 
man's  immemorial  petition  for  his  beloved  dead. 
"Requiem  eternam,"  said  a  voice  that  was  and  was 
not  the  voice  of  Edmund,  "Requiem  eternam  dona  ei 
Domine,  et  lux  perpetua  luceat  ei"  Tears  sprang  to 
Stephen's  eyes;  he  felt  himself  strangled  and  shaken 
by  a  sudden  passion.  It  could  be  no  grief  of  his 
own,  for  that  which  lay  before  him  under  the  blind 
and  silent  pall  had  never  been  for  him  the  symbol 
of  a  deep  or  long  familiar  affection.  But  he  saw 
around  him  not  only  the  sorrow  but  the  helplessness 
of  those  whom  he  loved ;  he  saw  old  age  and  manhood 
and  girlish  youth  all  alike  bowed  to  drink  of  that 
cup  which  must  always  keep  its  bitterness  while  man 
keeps  his  human  nature.  He  had  himself  laid  his 
father  in  the  grave ;  but  that  parting,  terrible  as  it 
was,  had  come  upon  him  when  he  was  alone  and  in 
a  far  country;  it  had  made  a  complete  break  in  his 
own  life,  and  yet  had  troubled  the  happiness  of  no 
one  else,  so  that  he  had  come  to  think  of  it  as  a 
grief  peculiar  to  himself,  and  had  never  realized  that 
death  was  hourly  bringing  to  others  what  it  had  once 
brought  to  him.  Now  he  saw  that  the  greatest  of 
human  sorrows  is  one  and  indivisible,  and  that  what- 
ever immunities  man  may  learn  or  wrest  from  nature 
in  the  bright  world  of  the  future,  he  can  never,  even 


REQUIEM  ETERNAM  327 

for  a  day,  shut  his  ears  against  the  passing  bell,  or 
deaden  his  heart  to  the  De  Profundis  of  his  race. 

The  sense  of  pity  was  deepened  yet  more  as  he 
looked  round  upon  the  company  of  friends  and 
neighbours  who  filled  the  church.  If  men  are  but 
as  grass,  that  to-day  is  and  to-morrow  is  cut  down 
and  laid  away,  what,  then,  were  these  but  the  long 
fallen  leaves  of  a  very  far-off  summer,  to  whose  hollow 
forms  some  strange,  airy  current  of  his  own  imagina- 
tion had  for  a  time  given  back  a  lifelike  movement 
and  a  whisper  of  the  human  voice?  Yet  again  he 
saw  that,  in  their  love  and  grief  and  hope,  there  was 
a  reality  beyond  that  of  their  bodily  existence,  and 
he  fell  to  wondering  whether  the  hour  that  was  waiting 
for  them  all,  and  for  him  too  in  his  turn,  would  bring 
upon  them  any  change  of  the  true  self,  comparable 
to  that  which  must  befall  the  body.  What  end  or 
what  beginning  is  it  that  we  peer  at  through  the 
name  of  death  ?  How  are  we  to  think  of  the  dead,  or 
what  to  desire  for  them  and  for  ourselves  ? 

A  second  time  the  calm,  sad,  unwavering  voice 
began  its  deep  music — "Requiem  eternam  dona  ei 
Domine  ;"  and  then,  through  the  murmur  of  the 
voices  that  echoed  it,  a  second  time  he  heard  the 
words  which  followed:  " JEt  lux  perpetua  luceat  ei" 
The  flood  of  thought  which  came  upon  him  seemed 
to  bear  him  up  no  longer ;  he  sank  to  a  depth  where 


328  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

no  light  or  sound  of  the  material  world  could  reach 
his  consciousness.  When  he  returned  to  the  upper 
air  it  was  to  find  the  service  over,  and  Edmund 
standing  face  to  face  with  the  little  company  of 
mourners,  as  if  he  could  not  let  them  go  without 
one  more  word. 

"  My  friends,"  he  said,  "  it  has  been  the  custom  of 
our  people  from  a  time  beyond  memory  to  speak  of 
death  in  the  language  of  the  Psalmist — to  say  that 
man's  life  is  a  shadow,  that  he  passes  away  and  his 
place  knows  him  no  more.  We  cannot  deny  that  it 
is  true,  yet  we  cannot  forget  that  it  is  true  only  with 
the  truth  of  this  world.  For  us  in  these  later  days 
another  view  is  possible — the  view,  not  of  men  who 
must  remain  behind,  but  rather  of  spirits  who  are  upon 
the  point  of  following.  We  may  bethink  ourselves  that 
for  those  who  are  dead,  and  for  us  too,  since  we  shall 
soon  be  with  them,  to  depart  hence  is  not  to  perish, 
but  to  survive  the  perishing  of  all  that  was  less  real 
about  us,  the  fading  of  all  the  shadows  with  which  our 
life  was  darkened.  To-day,  therefore,  in  this  service  of 
separation,  we  have  been  weeping  not  only  for  the  loss 
that  has  befallen  the  home  of  our  transitory  existence, 
but  also  for  our  own  continued  blindness  that  will  not 
let  us  see  life  as  it  is.  One  whom  we  love  has  been 
released  from  this  darkness  and  bondage  of  time ;  she 
has  passed,  as  the  greatest  of  all  poets  was  once 


REQUIEM  ETEBNAM  329 

permitted  to  pass  before  his  death,  from  the  human  life 
to  the  divine,  from  the  temporal  to  the  eternal.  In  our 
prayers  for  her  we  must  keep  this  always  before  us, 
lest  we  speak  the  old  familiar  phrases  with  the  under- 
standing of  a  bygone  age,  and  deceive  ourselves  with 
words  of  comfortable  sound  that  are  the  very  denial  of 
our  only  true  consolation.  If  we  ask  that  God  may 
give  His  beloved  eternal  rest,  we  must  think  of  no 
such  sleep  as  that  which  we  have  known  ourselves. 
They  shall  rest — not  from  their  work,  but  from  their 
labours ;  not  from  their  service,  but  from  the  wilfulness 
and  vacillation  that  alone  could  make  it  wearisome: 
they  shall  cease — not  from  the  active  consciousness 
which  is  the  life  of  the  true  self,  but  from  the  appetites 
and  trivialities  by  which  that  life  is  here  continually 
broken.  Let  us  think  of  them,  therefore,  as  we  see 
them  pictured  upon  their  tombs  :  lying  motionless  and 
with  folded  hands,  in  token  that  for  them  the  warfare 
of  the  body  has  been  accomplished,  and  the  will  sur- 
rendered to  the  eternal  peace ;  with  eyes  upturned  and 
open,  to  signify  that  they  know  no  longer  the  alterna- 
tion of  day  and  darkness,  but  enjoy  continually  all 
knowledge,  all  love,  and  all  fulfilment,  as  it  were  in 
one  changeless  moment  of  perpetual  light." 


XLIV 

ON  the  following  morning  Harry  Marland  started  for 
the  second  time  on  his  journey  to  the  North.  Edmund 
stayed  some  days  longer,  and  said  the  Kequiem  again 
on  the  octave  of  his  mother's  death.  Stephen  and 
Aubrey  looked  forward  to  his  departure  with  the 
greatest  anxiety;  while  he  remained,  Sir  Henry  showed 
a  strength  and  self-control  that  were  beyond  all  ex- 
pectation, but  it  seemed  impossible  that  these  should 
continue  in  the  same  degree  after  he  had  gone,  for  he 
spent  every  moment  of  the  day  with  his  father,  and 
appeared  to  be  more  indispensable  to  him  than  ever. 
But  when  the  time  came  they  found  that  they  had 
under-estimated  the  old  man's  courage:  he  continued 
to  show  the  same  power  of  patient,  half-humorous  re- 
sistance to  his  troubles  which  had  for  so  long  been 
characteristic  of  him,  and  rather  gave  than  needed 
consolation  and  encouragement ;  the  lamp  was  burning 
low,  but  the  dying  light  made  a  brave  flicker,  and 
would  brighten,  while  it  lasted,  everything  about  it. 

Stephen  watched  with  admiration,  but  with  a  pre- 
sentiment that  the  strain  of  this  effort  would  hasten 
rather  than  delay  the  end.  He  saw  more  than  one 

830 


AN  OLD  MAN'S  THOUGHTS  331 

sign  that  Sir  Henry  himself  was  conscious  of  a  coming 
change,  and  he  was  not  surprised  when  at  last  the 
moment  came  for  speaking  openly. 

It  was  a  bright,  still  morning — the  second  day  of 
November — and  Aubrey  had  asked  him,  as  usual,  to 
keep  her  uncle  company  for  an  hour  while  she  was 
busy  with  the  affairs  of  the  household.  Sir  Henry 
was  sitting  by  the  window  of  the  solar,  and  seemed  to 
be  occupied,  as  he  often  was,  or  pretended  to  be,  in 
trying  to  count  the  wild  duck  which  came  upon  the 
lake  in  increasing  numbers  at  this  time  of  the  year. 
His  attention  appeared  to  be  entirely  given  to  these 
birds,  and  for  some  time  Stephen's  conversation  with 
him  was  limited  to  the  identification  of  mallards,  coots, 
and  pochards ;  but  in  spite  of  the  zest  with  which  this 
pastime  was  followed,  Stephen  received  an  impression, 
for  which  he  could  hardly  perhaps  have  accounted, 
that  there  were  more  serious  matters  to  be  discussed 
that  morning,  which  were  being  postponed  from  minute 
to  minute  from  some  kind  of  reluctance  to  approach 
them  directly. 

At  last  Sir  Henry  turned  from  the  window  with  a 
sigh,  and  drew  a  small  packet  from  under  his  cloak, 
which  lay  by  him  upon  the  window-seat. 

"  Stephen,"  he  said  abruptly,  "  this  is  your  money." 

Stephen  held  out  his  hand  mechanically  to  receive 
the  packet,  but  his  surprise  showed  plainly  in  his  face. 


332  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

"I  want  to  give  it  back  to  you,"  Sir  Henry  con- 
tinued, "  because— well,  I  will  tell  you  why  later  on ; 
it  will  be  quite  safe  for  you  to  keep  it  yourself,  now 
that  the  whole  house  knows  it  is  in  my  strong  box. 
Put  it  out  of  sight,  and  say  nothing  about  it  to  any 
one.  And  now  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  other 
things." 

Stephen  expressed  his  readiness,  but  for  some  time 
nothing  followed.  Sir  Henry  was  once  more  gazing 
out  over  the  water ;  he  seemed  to  be  still  embarrassed, 
and  Stephen  guessed  rightly  that  the  "other  things" 
of  which  he  spoke  were  in  reality  nothing  but  other 
methods  of  approaching  the  same  point. 

"  You  will  think  me  a  foolish  old  man,"  Sir  Henry 
began  at  last — "  and  faint-hearted,  perhaps — but  I  have 
been  thinking  a  good  deal  about  what  Edmund  said  in 
church  that  day.  Do  you  remember  ? " 

"  I  remember  every  word,"  replied  Stephen ;  "  but 
which  part  of  it  has  been  in  your  mind  especially  ? " 

"  The  part  about  the  perishing  of  the  temporal  life. 
I  thought  it  very  beautiful."  He  arched  his  eyebrows, 
and  made  a  deprecating  gesture  with  his  hands.  "  You 
know,  I  always  think  Edmund  says  very  beautiful 
tilings ;  but  I  want  to  know  how  it  looked  to  you,  this 
idea  that  Time  is  not  real  at  all." 

Stephen  hesitated ;  his  interest  was  almost  too 
great  for  words. 


AN  OLD  MAN'S  THOUGHTS  333 

"  I  thought  you  would  be  sure  to  have  an  opinion," 
Sir  Henry  continued;  "you  have  been  accustomed  to 
deal  with  these  matters,  and  I  have  not :  but  the  time 
has  come — well,  I  am  more  interested  in  such  thoughts 
than  I  used  to  be.  To-day  is  All  Souls'  Day;  we 
make  little  of  it  here  because  the  day  before — All 
Saints' — is  their  big  festival  at  Croonington,  and  our 
people  like  to  go  there ;  but  I  was  thinking  a  good 
deal  last  night  of  my  dear  wife  and  the  boys,  in  the 
church  yonder.  I  like  to  believe  that  they  are  not 
sleeping — that  they  have  some  knowledge  of  us,  or  at 
the  least  some  memory — but  I  should  be  still  more 
glad  if  you  thought  I  might  accept  what  Edmund  said 
about  Time  as  the  truth ;  true,  that  is,  in  the  way  in 
which  I  understand  it.  I  dare  say  you  see  why." 

"  Not  quite,"  Stephen  replied.  "  I  am  sure  that  I 
agree  with  all  that  he  said,  but  I  have  not  yet  caught 
the  whole  of  your  meaning." 

"  Why,  it  makes  all  the  difference  if  it  is  true  ; 
the  real  sadness  of  these  partings  has  always  seemed 
to  me  not  so  much  that  one  goes  where  the  rest  must 
follow,  as  that  if  one  dies  long  before  another,  they 
cannot  ever  meet  again  in  their  old  relation.  I  must 
either  find  strange  men  where  I  lost  my  own  lads,  or 
they  must  greet  an  old  fellow  whom  they  never  knew. 
But  if  Time  is  unreal,  then  so,  I  suppose,  is  age ;  we 
shall  all  be  just  ourselves,  and  no  more  disguised  from 


334  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

each  other  by  our  years  than  we  are  here  by  our 
clothes." 

The  wistful  and  humble  simplicity  with  which  he 
spoke  touched  Stephen  profoundly. 

"I  have  no  doubt  whatever,"  he  said,  "that  you 
are  right.  But  it  is  I  who  am  learning  from  you; 
I  am  afraid  I  have  never  really  studied  these  questions 
— certainly  not  in  the  way  you  supposed." 
i&t  "  But  I  thought  you  had  many  ideas  of  your  own 
about  the  future  ? " 

"  I  have  been  interested  in  the  future  of  the  race  ; 
but  that  is  different." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Sir  Henry,  more  humbly  still ; 
"you  make  me  ashamed  of  my  selfishness,  but  it  is 
too  late  to  teach  me  now.  You  might  tell  me  every- 
thing that  is  to  happen  on  earth  in  the  next  five 
hundred  years,  but  if  I  had  the  choice  I  would  rather 
hear  what  is  to  happen  to  me  in  the  five  minutes  after 
death." 

Stephen's  face  burned.  In  the  world  where  his 
theories  of  the  Future  had  won  so  easy  a  triumph,  no 
one  had  ever  faced  him  with  such  an  answer,  but  it 
suddenly  stood  revealed  to  him  that  ten  thousand  must 
have  been  thinking  then  what  he  had  heard  none  speak 
until  now — now,  in  the  past  he  had  affected  to  despise. 

"You  are  right,"  he  said  again,  "you  are  right, 
you  and  Edmund ;  your  future  is  the  real  one." 


AN  OLD  MAN'S  THOUGHTS  335 

He  spoke  fervently,  driving  the  point  home  against 
himself  as  if  in  expiation  of  his  old  folly.  Sir  Henry 
saw  the  emotion ;  the  true  cause  of  it  was  hidden  from 
him,  but  he  was  grateful  for  what  he  understood. 

"I  cannot  tell  you,"  he  said,  laying  his  hand  on 
Stephen's  knee,  "  what  a  support  you  have  been  to  me." 

"  I  wish  I  could  have  done  more,"  Stephen  replied ; 
"  but  I  can  only  repeat  what  I  promised  before,  that  I 
will  stay  as  long  as  you  need  me." 

Sir  Henry  looked  at  him  as  if  hesitating  once  more ; 
then  he  said — 

"  Stephen,  this  is  what  I  wished  to  tell  you :  it 
will  not  be  for  very  long  now  that  your  promise  will 
bind  you.  That  is  why  I  gave  you  back  the  money." 

"  I  hope  you  are  mistaken,"  said  Stephen. 

"  I  hope  not,"  he  replied,  and  he  looked  away  again 
across  the  lake. 

For  some  time  neither  of  them  spoke ;  then  Sir 
Henry  turned  again  to  Stephen  with  his  old  half- 
humorous  air  of  weariness. 

"I  can  talk  with  a  man,"  he  said,  "but  I  never 
could  face  a  woman.  Will  you  send  Aubrey  to  me 
now?" 


XLV 

FROM  week  to  week  the  year  faded  quietly  to  its  close. 
The  chestnuts  had  cast  their  splendid  mantles  almost 
in  a  single  night,  the  beeches  stood  ankle-deep  in  the 
rustle  of  their  own  rich  brown  leaves ;  but  the  woods 
were  green  with  moss  and  gay  with  the  bright  pink 
berries  of  the  service  tree,  and  in  the  park  the  elms, 
after  all  the  rest  were  bare,  still  rose  like  great  golden 
clouds  against  the  pure  faint  blue  of  the  sky — clouds 
thinner  and  more  ethereal  every  day,  but  exquisitely 
radiant  to  the  last.  Even  December,  in  this  warm 
green  West,  seemed  to  have  none  of  the  rigour  of 
winter.  Night  came  earlier  and  stayed  longer,  but  she 
was  neither  cold  nor  angry.  Nature  seemed  brooding 
over  her  hopes  rather  than  her  memories ;  already  the 
deep  combes  were  starred  with  a  few  pale  primroses, 
and  thrushes  sang  above  them  as  they  had  not  been 
singing  since  June. 

Edmund  came  and  went  and  came  again.  He  spoke 
no  word  of  anxiety  about  his  father,  but  when  Stephen 
told  him  of  the  return  of  his  money  and  the  conver- 
sation that  had  followed,  he  seemed  in  no  way  sur- 
prised, and  confessed  shortly  afterwards  that  he  had 

336 


THE  NEW  LORD  337 

gone  so  far  as  to  send  a  messenger  to  Harry  at  Bor- 
deaux, begging  him  to  obtain  leave  from  the  Prince 
to  spend  the  remainder  of  the  winter  at  home.  The 
man  returned  with  the  welcome  news  that  this  request 
had  been  readily  granted,  and  that  Harry,  who  was 
already  back  in  England,  would  hasten  down  to  Gar- 
denleigh  as  soon  as  he  had  delivered  the  letters  and 
concluded  the  business  with  which  he  was  charged. 

The  delay  was  not  a  long  one.  Some  few  days 
later  Stephen  was  walking  back  alone  from  Crooning- 
tou ;  rain  had  been  falling,  and  he  took  the  road 
instead  of  the  pathway  across  the  fields.  He  had 
passed  through  the  Bath  Gate  into  the  park,  and  was 
descending  the  steep  slope  to  the  brook,  when  he  heard 
behind  him  the  hollow  sound  of  hoofs  resounding 
under  the  great  vaulted  archway  of  the  gatehouse. 
He  turned  and  saw  Harry  Marland,  as  he  had  once 
seen  the  Bishop,  riding  out  from  the  stone  frame  of 
the  arch  and  coming  rapidly  towards  him. 

"Well  met,  Stephen!"  he  cried,  but  with  more 
relief  than  cordiality  in  his  voice.  He  dismounted  at 
the  same  moment,  and  gave  his  horse  to  one  of  the 
men  who  followed  him,  with  an  order  to  go  straight 
to  the  house.  "We  will  walk,"  he  said  shortly  to 
Stephen,  and  they  took  the  footpath  to  the  left  round 
the  lake. 

As  they  went  he  questioned  Stephen  minutely  about 


338  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

his  father's  health,  and  was  evidently  far  from  satisfied 
with  the  result.  He  became  more  and  more  moody, 
and  walked  more  and  more  slowly,  though  the  dusk 
was  deepening  every  moment,  and  a  light  misty  rain 
was  drawing  down  over  the  valley.  When  they  reached 
the  fallen  tree  he  stopped  altogether,  as  if  unwilling  to 
go  on  to  the  house  until  he  had  made  a  further  effort 
to  lighten  his  mind  of  its  burden. 

"  I  cannot  understand  it,"  he  said  for  the  fifth  time, 
"  and  I  must  say  that  you  have  not  helped  me,  Stephen. 
Men  like  my  father  do  not  die  without  a  cause." 

"  I  do  not  claim  to  understand  it  either,"  Stephen 
replied;  "but  I  think  it  may  be  equally  true  that  a 
man  of  his  age  and  infirmity  does  not  go  on  living 
without  some  strong  animating  principle  which  seems 
to  be  lacking  here." 

"That  sounds  well,"  replied  Harry,  with  a  touch 
of  bitterness,  "  but  it  is  too  fine-drawn  for  me.  I  have 
seen  men  die  of  many  things,  but  never  anything 
negative — except  starvation." 

"  Your  father  has  eaten  less  and  less  lately." 

"And  why  is  that?"  asked  Harry,  brusquely. 
"Why  do  you  not  admit  at  once  that  he  is  worrying 
himself  to  death  ? " 

"  I  see  no  sign  of  it." 

"No  sign?  He  has  talked  to  you,  they  tell  me, 
quite  openly ;  you  have  seen  Ralph,  you  have  seen  the 


THE  NEW  LORD  339 

Bishop,  you  know  the  whole  trouble  from  beginning 
to  end." 

Stephen  began  to  see  the  meaning  of  his  companion's 
somewhat  sullen  attitude. 

"  Yes/'  he  replied,  in  a  conciliatory  tone,  "  it  is  a 
great  trouble,  that ;  but  I  do  not  think  it  has  counted 
for  much  lately.  Of  course,  it  may  come  upon  us 
again  at  any  moment." 

"  That  is  it,"  exclaimed  Harry,  fiercely ;  "  it  is  Ealph 
who  is  killing  him.  I  wish  we  might  never  hear  the 
fellow's  name  again." 

Stephen  started  as  if  he  had  been  lashed  with  a 
whip,  but  he  recovered  himself  and  held  his  tongue. 
He  stood  looking  away  over  the  water  and  up  the 
misty  hill  to  Aubrey's  seat.  Harry,  having  once  set 
his  grievance  spinning,  continued  to  flog  it  till  it 
whirled  and  hummed  as  though  it  would  never 
stop. 

While  he  was  speaking,  arguing,  grumbling,  Stephen's 
resolution  was  hardening. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  when  the  tirade  came  to  an  end, 
"  what  can  we  do  ?  " 

"  You  can  end  the  whole  affair :  tell  Ealph  out  and 
out  that  my  father's  life  is  more  precious  than  his ;  say 
that  you  have  no  more  encouragement  for  him ;  he  must 
get  on  as  best  he  can  without  you." 

Stephen  again  mastered  his  indignation.     "I  have 


340  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

promised  your  father,"  he  replied,  "that  I  will  stand 
by  him  to  the  end  in  this  matter." 

"Have  you?"  retorted  Harry.  "Then  I  absolve 
you  of  that  promise." 

Stephen  did  not  answer.  As  the  words  sank  into 
his  mind  a  sudden  sense  of  crisis  came  upon  him ;  the 
situation  seemed  to  define  itself.  At  the  same  moment 
he  saw  that  the  rain  had  ceased,  and  the  veil  of  mist 
had  receded  a  little  up  the  hill.  At  the  top  it  \vas 
still  heavy  and  motionless,  and  seemed  to  have  rolled 
together  into  a  dense  mass  in  the  centre,  where  the 
gap  divided  the  garden  avenue,  and  where  Aubrey  had 
so  often  planned  to  build.  He  could  almost  fancy  that 
he  saw  the  house  of  her  imagination,  the  house  of  the 
centuries  to  come,  the  house  which  he  had  left  to 
follow  her. 

Harry  saw  that  he  was  moved,  and  thought  himself 
the  cause. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  he  said,  with  a  sudden  return 
of  kindlier  feeling,  "  I  have  hurt  you.  Forgive  me,  for- 
give me ;  I  have  said  more  than  I  meant." 

Stephen  took  his  outstretched  hand  gratefully,  and 
they  walked  home  together  without  referring  to  the  sub- 
ject again.  As  they  passed  an  open  space  between  the 
trees  the  garden  slope  was  visible  once  more,  and 
Stephen  saw  without  surprise  that  the  phantom  house 
was  still  looming  upon  its  gray  terrace  of  misty  twilight. 


XLVI 

BELIEFS  and  associations  which  it  would  take  many 
successive  impressions  to  fix  upon  the  mind  in  later 
life,  are  often  in  early  youth  produced  by  a  single  vivid 
experience,  and  when  tested  long  afterwards  prove  to 
be  little  better  than  illusions.     Stephen,  who  had  not 
spent  a  Christmas  in  England  for  twenty  years,  now 
saw  his  childish  recollections  sadly  falsified.     He  re- 
membered only  a  succession  of  hard  white  winters; 
but  this  one  was  green  and  mild,  without  a  thought  of 
snow.     He  supposed  that  the  season  would  bring  with 
it  a  general  and  irresistible  feeling  of  gaiety ;  and  here 
he  found  himself  in  a  silent  and  anxious  house,  looking 
out  upon  a  future  clouded  with  uncertainty  and  heavy 
with  threatening  storm.     Some  ceremony  there  cer- 
tainly was,  some  observance  of  tradition,  but  all  that 
was  festive  in  it  was  left  to  the  young  and  irresponsible ; 
for  the  others  the  time  was  rather  one  of  memories  and 
sad  comparisons,  thrust  out  of  sight,  but  never  laid  to 
rest  by  the  dutiful  assumption  of  cheerfulness. 

The  week  went  slowly  by,  and  December  seemed 
to  be  drawing  to  a  peaceful  end.  It  was  a  long-estab- 
lished custom  of  the  Marlands  that  the  household 

341 


342  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

should  sit  up  on  the  last  night  to  watch  the  passing 
of  the  old  year,  and  to  wish  each  other  God-speed 
in  the  first  moments  of  that  which  was  beginning. 
To  Stephen,  and  perhaps  to  some  of  the  others,  this 
observance  seemed  on  the  present  occasion  to  have  an 
almost  ominous  appropriateness;  but  no  one  ventured 
to  suggest  that  it  should  be  abandoned,  and  long  after 
Sir  Henry  was  asleep  the  little  company  of  four  was 
still  sitting  round  the  fire  in  the  great  gallery,  and 
talking  fitfully  as  they  waited  for  midnight,  while  the 
servants  were  assembled  in  the  same  fashion  in  the 
hall  below. 

Even  at  such  a  time,  when  all  were  quiet  and  a 
little  weary,  differences  of  character  and  outlook  could 
not  fail  to  produce  their  visible  effect.  Of  the  circle 
in  the  gallery,  Edmund  was  the  most  silent;  he  had 
that  day  been  feeling  more  anxiety  about  his  father's 
condition  than  he  had  allowed  any  one  else  to  suspect, 
and  his  face,  though  serene  in  its  expression,  was  deeply 
marked  with  lines  of  pain.  Still,  in  spite  of  all,  it  was 
serene,  and  in  strong  contrast  to  that  of  his  brother, 
for  whom  any  unwonted  activity  of  the  mind  increased 
rather  than  diminished  the  necessity  for  activity  of  the 
body.  For  days  he  had  been  growing  more  and  more 
restless;  he  was  troubled  about  his  father,  he  was 
troubled  about  his  wife,  whose  condition  would  not 
allow  of  her  making  the  long  journey  from  Cheshire 


THE  SAND  IN  THE  GLASS  343 

to  rejoin  him;  he  was  troubled  about  Ealph  and  the 
Bishop,  and  about  his  own  attitude  and  Stephen's 
towards  their  difference.  To-day  he  was  at  fever 
point,  unable  to  stay  for  a  moment  in  any  one  position, 
and  constantly  uttering  half-intelligible  murmurs  and 
exclamations,  by  which  he  only  added  to  the  fatigue 
both  of  others  and  of  himself. 

Aubrey  had  for  a  long  time  done  her  best  to  draw 
him  into  a  more  tranquil  state  of  mind ;  but  this  had 
proved  impossible,  if  only  from  the  abruptness  with 
which  he  would  leave  the  room  and  return  to  it  on 
various  errands  of  his  own  restless  invention.  She 
gave  him  up  at  last,  and  turned  to  Stephen,  who  re- 
sponded at  once,  as  he  always  did,  to  the  charm  of  her 
warm-hearted  sympathy,  spiced  even  now  and  made 
more  cordial  by  the  pinch  of  playful  malice  that  she 
so  seldom  omitted.  For  the  hundredth  time  he  dis- 
covered what  had  struck  him  at  his  first  meeting  with 
her,  that  the  secret  of  her  perfect  companionship  lay 
in  the  combination  of  certainty  and  unexpectedness; 
you  could  always  foretell  and  rely  upon  her  feelings, 
but  the  turn  of  her  thought  was  a  continual  slight 
surprise.  From  the  beginning  he  had  felt  sure  of  her 
friendship,  and  almost  sure  of  a  stronger  liking;  but 
though  she  had  never  for  a  moment  played  him  false, 
she  had  constantly  mystified  and  defeated  him  by  little 
feints,  ambushes,  delays,  and  counter-strokes  too  skilful 


344  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

to  be  unintended,  yet  too  playful  to  be  intended  seriously. 
She  would  give,  it  appeared,  but  not  yet;  for  what, 
then,  was  she  waiting  ?  She  had  long  ago  forgotten, 
or  seemed  to  have  forgotten,  her  dread  of  the  unknown 
future  towards  which  he  was  calling  her,  just  as  he 
himself  had  ceased  to  be  troubled  by  the  fact  that  he 
did  not  know  the  whole  secret  of  her  life ;  yet  the  end, 
the  moment  of  decision,  seemed  to  be  no  nearer  than 
it  had  been  many  times  before.  But  Stephen,  though 
he  was  as  far  as  ever  from  understanding  her,  felt  that 
he  loved  her  better  and  trusted  her  entirely ;  to-night, 
when  every  other  light  was  dim,  his  affection  was 
burning  with  a  clear,  unwavering  flame,  and  though 
he  had  more  problems  to  perplex  him  than  any  of  his 
companions,  he  was  certainly  the  least  troubled  of  the 
four. 

At  eleven  Harry  had  gone  suddenly  downstairs, 
and  brought  back  with  him  a  large  hour-glass,  which 
he  placed  in  the  centre  of  the  chimney-piece.  It  had 
been  already  turned,  and  the  sands,  as  they  ran  through 
in  their  thin  and  almost  invisible  stream,  were  heaping 
up  in  the  lower  bulb  a  tiny  pyramid  which  mounted 
and  slipped  down,  and  mounted  again,  and  held  the 
eye  of  those  who  watched  it  with  a  kind  of  fascination. 
Stephen  saw  that  so  long  as  he  was  looking  at  the 
base  of  the  mound,  it  appeared  to  grow  but  slowly, 
while  the  moment  his  glance  travelled  upwards  to  the 


THE  SAND  IN  THE  GLASS       345 

point  of  infall,  the  rush  of  atoms  seemed  to  be  im- 
mensely accelerated,  He  amused  himself  by  recalling 
the  old  comparison  of  the  days  or  hours  of  life  to  the 
running  sands,  and  wondered  idly  how  many  before 
him  had  noted  that  time,  like  the  atoms  on  the  heap, 
passes  quickly  or  slowly  according  to  the  point  of  view 
from  which  it  is  looked  at. 

"It  is  a  terribly  vivid  image,"  he  said  at  last  to 
Aubrey. 

"Yes,"  she  replied;  "but  which  part  do  you  take 
for  our  life  ? " 

"Oh,"  he  said  in  surprise,  "the  upper  half;  don't 
we  say  that  a  man's  days  are  numbered,  or  that  his 
days  are  running  out  ? " 

She  smiled,  but  kept  to  the  low,  quiet  tone  which 
was  intended  only  for  his  ear. 

"  But  we  are  surely  gaining,"  she  said,  "  not  losing. 
Time  may  give ;  he  certainly  cannot  take  away." 

"  I  see,"  he  replied ;  "  but  if  we  are  the  lower  half, 
what  happens  when  the  heap  is  finished  and  there  are 
no  more  sands  to  come  ?  The  image  does  not  help  us 
there." 

"  Yes,  it  shows  that  when  that  happens  Time  is  at 
an  end  for  us ;  to  go  on  with  that  kind  of  life  would 
involve  being  started  again  as  empty  as  we  were  at 
the  beginning." 

"Well?  "he  asked. 


346  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

"  Well,  to  me  there  is  nothing  there  worth  having ; 
if  you  take  my  memory  away,  you  take  my  self." 

"  You  think  that  ? "  he  exclaimed,  in  a  low,  eager 
voice,  looking  deep  into  her  eyes. 

She  smiled  again  her  faint,  half-mocking  smile,  as 
if  she  had  long  known  how  eager  he  was  to  have 
that  question  solved,  and  had  purposely  delayed  to 
answer  it. 

"  I  have  always  thought  so,"  she  replied.  "  But  see 
how  quickly  the  sand  is  falling ;  there  is  not  much  left 
now." 

" No"  said  Harry,  springing  up ;  " it  is  almost  time 
we  went  down." 

They  followed  him  from  the  room  and  down  the 
stairs;  the  household  was  gathered  in  the  outer  hall, 
looking  towards  the  door,  which  was  unbarred  but  still 
closed.  The  hour  was  not  quite  up.  For  a  moment 
Harry  stood  waiting  with  his  hand  upon  the  latch; 
then  he  flung  the  door  wide  open,  and  spoke  the 
traditional  words,  "Farewell  the  old,  and  enter  what 
God  will." 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  a  stir  of  almost  terrified 
surprise;  a  footstep  came  across  the  dark  and  silent 
courtyard,  a  black  shadow  crossed  the  circle  of  light 
beyond  the  door,  and  came  quickly  into  the  porch 
itself.  Harry  stepped  back ;  the  figure  passed  him  by 
and  strode  on  into  the  hall. 


THE  SAND  IN  THE  GLASS       347 

"Edmund,"  said  the  voice  of  Kalph  Tremur,  "do 
what  you  will  with  me  to-morrow;  but  I  can  go  no 
further  to-night." 

"  Hush  ! "  said  Edmund,  and  he  drew  Ealph  quickly 
away  to  his  own  room. 

Harry  followed  them  scowling ;  Stephen  and  Aubrey 
wished  each  other  a  happy  New  Year  with  a  long 
hand-grip  and  shining  eyes. 


XLVII 

NEITHER  Stephen  nor  Aubrey  heard  a  word  of  Ralph's 
story  that  night,  and  they  had  great  difficulty  in  find- 
ing an  opportunity  to  speak  with  him  alone  next  day. 
At  last,  when  Harry  was  engaged  by  his  father  for 
an  hour's  talk  on  matters  of  business,  and  Edmund 
had  left  Sir  Henry's  bedside  for  a  short  rest  in  his 
own  room,  they  all  three  slipped  out  of  the  house 
together  and  took  the  path  up  the  down,  which,  being 
at  the  back  of  the  house,  lay  out  of  sight  of  Sir 
Henry's  window.  To  guard  still  further  against  being 
followed,  they  turned  aside  out  of  the  Selwood  track 
about  halfway  down  the  avenue,  and  made  for  a 
small  hollow  a  furlong  to  the  right,  formed  by  stone- 
quarrying  in  another  generation,  and  now  thickly 
fringed  with  bushes  and  undergrowth.  Here  they 
could  sit  in  some  comfort,  sheltered  from  the  wind 
and  facing  ^the  low  afternoon  sun,  but,  above  all,  secure 
from  any  kind  of  interruption. 

"  Now,"  said  Stephen,  when  they  were  safely  settled 
there,  "  tell  us  quickly,  Ealph,  how  the  situation  has 
changed  since  you  were  last  here." 

Ealph  laughed  a  short  and  angry  laugh.    "  Changed, 

348 


THE  HUNT  IS  UP  349 

indeed !     Last  time  I  was  among  friends ;  an  enemy  is 
master  here  now." 

The  other  two  had  not  a  word  to  say  to  this ;  it 
was  not  true,  but  it  was  too  near  the  truth. 

"  That  is  not  what  I  meant,"  said  Stephen.  "  I 
was  asking  you  what  has  happened :  what  have  you 
been  doing,  what  has  the  Bishop  done  ?  " 

"I  have  seen  him  at  last,"  replied  Kalph,  with  a 
touch  of  exultation  in  his  voice.  "  He  surpassed  him- 
self; my  only  fear  is  that  his  eloquence  prevented 
him  from  hearing  half  of  what  I  told  him." 

Aubrey  glanced  at  Stephen  with  a  swift,  appreci- 
ative twinkle  in  her  eyes. 

"  Did  you  follow  all  that  he  said  ?  "  she  asked,  with 
great  simplicity. 

"  Not  I,"  replied  Ealph ;  "  it  was  my  last  earthly 
chance  of  speaking  to  the  Church  face  to  face." 

She  looked  at  him  with  the  fond,  admiring  regret 
of  a  mother  for  the  gallant  perversity  of  her 
child. 

"  Oh,  Ealph,"  she  said,  "  you  will  drive  him  to 
extremes." 

"  Look  here,"  he  replied  more  soberly,  "  the  mischief 
is  all  done;  it  is  the  remedy  that  we  must  think 
about.  It  is  four  days  since  I  saw  him;  by  now 
his  threats  are  threats  no  longer.  He  has  cursed  me 
with  bell,  book,  and  candle ;  he  has  proclaimed  me  an 


350  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

outcast,  a  leper,  one  cut  off  from  the  body  of  Christ 
and  given  over  to  everlasting  torments." 
Aubrey  gave  a  low  exclamation  of  horror. 
Stephen's  anger  flamed  up  into  his  eyes.     "Who 
cares  ? "  he  cried  fiercely ;  "  his  curses  cannot  make 
right  wrong." 

"No,"  said  Ealph,  "but  they  can  make  life  im- 
possible for  me.  He  has  persuaded  my  other  Fathers 
in  God,  the  Bishops  of  London  and  Wells,  to  excom- 
municate me  too;  I  have  not  a  friend  outside  their 
jurisdiction,  nor  any  means  of  livelihood.  You  will 
see  the  last  of  me  to-morrow." 

"  Why  ? "  asked  Stephen.  "  Why  not  stay  here  as 
you  did  before  ? " 

Ealph  looked  at  him  with  the  gentlest  and  kindest 
look  that  Stephen  had  ever  seen  upon  his  face. 

"Dear  fellow,"  he  said,  "you  are  forgetting.  My 
leprosy  is  contagious  now ;  he  that  takes  my  hand  is 
lost  too.  Harry  Marland  is  right  to-day,  whatever  he 
was  yesterday." 

"Oh,  don't  be  hard,  don't  misjudge  him,"  cried 
Aubrey.  "Whatever  he  was  yesterday,  he  will  be 
right  to-day ;  he  will  never  give  you  up,  he  will  find 
some  way  out  for  you." 

"Ay,"  said  Ralph,  "the  open  door." 

The  words  were  bitter,  but  very  gently  spoken,  and 
moved  his  hearers  to  sympathy  rather  than  indignation. 


THE  HUNT  IS  UP  351 

Aubrey  looked  thoughtfully  at  Stephen,  who  was  staring 
grimly  at  the  distant  line  of  wood  behind  which  the 
sun  was  at  this  moment  disappearing.  He  knew  that 
Ralph  made  no  mistake;  powerless  or  not,  Harry 
would  not  shelter  him:  but  he  was  turning  rapidly 
over  in  his  own  mind  a  dozen  possible  and  impossible 
courses;  one  way  or  another  he  was  determined  that 
the  Bishop  should  be  baulked. 

At  last  the  bright  gold  was  gone  from  behind  the 
distant  trees;  the  valley  filled  imperceptibly  with  a 
soft  grey  twilight.  Stephen  stood  up  suddenly  with 
a  quick,  resolute  movement,  and  held  out  a  hand  to 
each  of  his  companions. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  "  it  is  getting  dark ;  let  us  go 
back  and  talk  to  Edmund." 

They  walked  slowly  towards  the  avenue.  As  they 
turned  into  it  the  sound  of  hoofs  came  rapidly  across 
the  down,  and  they  had  barely  time  to  step  back 
between  the  trees  before  two  horsemen  galloped  past 
them,  and  went  down  over  the  edge  towards  the 
house.  Aubrey  had  gone  forward  again  into  the  path, 
and  stood  looking  after  them. 

"  I  believe "  she  began  with  amazement  in  her 

voice.  "  I  thought " 

But  at  that  moment  a  louder  noise  was  heard. 
Stephen  sprang  forward  and  drew  her  back  out  of 
the  track.  Half  a  dozen  riders  were  following  the 


352  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

other  two;  they  passed  at  the  same  fierce  gallop,  and 
with  a  clank  of  steel  somewhere  among  them;  the 
acrid  steam  of  their  horses  seemed  to  sicken  the 
quiet  twilight.  Aubrey  looked  at  the  two  men;  her 
amazement  was  near  terror  now. 

"  You  were  right,"  said  Ealph ;  "  the*  hunt  is  up 
already."  But  he  went  on  walking  towards  the  house 
without  any  sign  of  fear. 


XLVIII 

EDMUND  met  them  at  the  door.  He  was  very  grave, 
and  spoke  briefly. 

"Kalph,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "the  Bishop  is 
here;  you  must  go  straight  to  the  keeper's  lodge 
and  sup  there.  To-night,  when  you  hear  the  curfew 
bell,  go  round  to  the  old  gate  at  the  west  side  of  the 
garden;  one  of  us  will  come  and  tell  you  what  has 
happened." 

Ealph  hesitated  for  a  moment,  then  gave  in  and 
went  without  a  word. 

Edmund  turned  to  Aubrey  and  Stephen.  "We 
have  no  time  to  consult  now,"  he  said;  "the  only 
thing  I  can  advise  is  that  we  should  all  speak  straight- 
forwardly when  we  have  to  speak,  but  that  we  know 
nothing  until  we  are  compelled  to  know  it.  From 
what  we  heard  last  night,  the  excommunication  has 
probably  been  already  pronounced,  but  that  is  nothing 
to  us  till  we  hear  it  as  a  fact  from  the  Bishop  himself. 
You  understand  ? " 

They  nodded  and  went  in  with  him. 

Supper  that  night  was  a  terrible  ordeal;  the 
Bishop  alone  was  at  his  ease.  His  manner  showed  his 

353  2   A 


354  THE  OLD  COUNTB7 

perception  of  the  fact  that  the  government  of  Garden- 
leigh  had  practically  changed  hands,  and  that  the  new 
lord  was  likely  to  be  easier  to  deal  with  than  the  old 
one.  Harry  more  than  half-resented  this  attitude,  for 
although  he  had  no  intention  of  defending  Kalph,  he 
was  by  nature  quite  as  jealous  as  his  father  of  all 
ecclesiastical  pretensions.  Aubrey  and  Stephen  were 
embarrassed  by  marks  of  confidence  which  they  did 
not  deserve,  and  yet  could  not  reject.  Edmund,  as 
ever,  bore  on  his  own  shoulders  the  anxieties  of  all 
the  rest,  and  he  had,  in  addition,  to  devise  the  means 
of  clearing  up  the  position  in  time  to  warn  Kalph 
that  night,  for  it  seemed  only  too  probable  that  Garden- 
leigh  would  be  no  place  for  him  next  day. 

When  they  found  themselves  once  more  gathered 
round  the  fire  after  supper,  there  was  .little  time  to  be 
lost.  Edmund  threw  all  his  strategy  aside,  and  came 
straight  to  the  point. 

"  My  lord,"  he  said,  "  can  you  give  us  any  news 
of  Ealph  Tremur  ? " 

"  I  am  glad  that  you  have  asked  me  that,"  replied 
the  Bishop,  "because  I  should  otherwise  have  had 
some  reluctance  to  pain  you,  Edmund,  by  opening  the 
subject  myself.  I  grieve  to  tell  you  that  he  has  finally 
proved  himself  unworthy  of  your  friendship." 

Edmund  would  have  ventured  another  question, 
but  Harry  interrupted  him. 


THE  OUTER  DARKNESS  355 

"  My  dear  Edmund,"  he  said,  "  you  really  must 
not  argue  any  more ;  you  have  done  all  that  any  one 
could  expect  of  you.  Ralph  has  pleaded  his  own  cause, 
and  been  condemned.  My  lord  has  found  it  neces- 
sary to  excommunicate  him,  and  there  is  an  end  of 
the  matter.  We  can  give  him  no  further  countenance." 

Edmund  did  not  reply.  His  last  appeal  must  be 
to  the  Bishop,  not  to  his  brother. 

"My  lord,"  he  said,  standing  humbly  before  the 
splendid  figure  enthroned  in  the  great  chair  of  red- 
and-white  velvet,  "  this  man  has  been  very  near  our 
hearts ;  is  nothing  more  permitted  to  us  ? " 

"  Nothing,"  answered  the  Bishop,  sternly.  "  Hence- 
forth he  is  dead  and  damned,  outcast  alike  from  the 
Church  on  earth  and  the  mercy  of  God." 

"  By  whom  ? "  cried  Stephen,  leaping  to  his  feet. 
"  By  man,  his  fellow-man,  and  by  an  ignorant  and 
unjust  sentence." 

"You  forget,  sir,"  said  the  Bishop,  with  great 
dignity,  turning  towards  Harry. 

"  Stephen,  you  are  mad,"  said  Harry. 

"  I  am  not  mad,  and  I  forget  nothing,"  cried 
Stephen,  hotly;  "but  where  one  persecutes,  another 
may  defend,  or  you  make  the  world  a  torture-house 
and  a  place  of  slaves.  Curse  me  too,  if  you  will,  with 
all  your  bells  and  candles.  I  am  for  Ralph  and  the 
outer  darkness," 


356  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

An  eternal  silence  seemed  to  fall  upon  the  room. 
He  dared  not  look  at  Aubrey;  the  faces  of  the  rest 
had  in  one  instant  grown  as  unreal  to  him  as  the 
stone  effigies  of  a  long  dead  past.  Before  any  one 
had  moved  or  spoken,  he  had  closed  the  door  behind 
him.  A  moment  later  he  had  taken  all  his  money 
from  his  room,  and  was  hurrying  to  the  garden  across 
the  starlit  valley.  He  had  lost  Aubrey,  but  he  knew 
that  to  turn  back  would  have  been  to  lose  her  no  less 
certainly 


XLIX 

INSIDE  the  garden  gate  Ealph  was  waiting.  Stephen 
found  him  pacing  quietly  up  and  down  at  the  western 
end  of  the  avenue,  his  broad  face  expanded  into  a  smile 
of  pleasurable  anticipation.  The  furious  spirit  which 
had  so  often  torn  him  at  the  mere  thought  of  authority, 
seemed  to  have  departed  now  that  the  tyranny  had 
actually  come  upon  him;  he  had  raved  against  a 
general  system  of  coercion,  but  when  it  was  practically 
applied  in  his  own  case,  he  seemed  rather  to  enjoy 
the  struggle. 

"  Well,"  he  asked  cheerfully,  as  Stephen  came 
within  hail,  "  have  the  hounds  winded  me  yet  ?  " 

"I  do  not  think  the  Bishop  knows  that  you  are 
here,"  replied  Stephen,  "but  he  soon  will.  He  has 
excommunicated  you,  and  Harry  has  accepted  his 
decision." 

"  Then  I  must  go,"  said  Ralph. 

"  So  must  I,"  said  Stephen ;  "  come,  we'have  nothing 
to  stay  for." 

"  Where  are  you  going  ? " 

"  I  hardly  know.  I  have  some  land  in  Warwick- 
shire." 

357 


358  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

"  Safe  enough  for  you,"  replied  Ealph,  "  but  not 
for  me.  I  tell  you  they  are  hunting  me ;  you  have 
not  heard  all.  When  I  was  preaching  down  there  in 
Cornwall  I  took  the  pyx  out  of  a  church,  and  burnt 
the  Host  before  a  houseful  of  people.  I  broke  into  the 
church,  you  understand,  and  those  fellows  with  the 
Bishop  have  the  sheriff's  writ  against  me." 

"  I  don't  understand." 

"  Don't  you  ?  but  the  Bishop  does.  The  civil  law 
kills  quicker  than  his  curses ;  give  a  man  without 
money  or  friends  one  winter  in  gaol,  and  he  will 
never  live  to  stand  his  trial.  No !  I'll  not  be  caught. 
I  shall  make  straight  for  Weymouth  without  touching 
a  high-road,  and  if  I  can  earn  or  beg  a  passage  to 
France—  " 

"  Ah !  "  cried  Stephen,  joyfully,  "  I  had  forgotten." 
He  took  out  the  money  and  put  it  into  Ealph's  hand. 

The  weight  told  its  own  tale.  Small  though  the 
packet  was,  it  held  not  merely  a  safe  passage  to 
France,  but  food  and  shelter  for  a  year  at  least. 
Ealph,  in  his  triumphant  joy  over  the  gift,  quite 
forgot  to  thank  the  giver.  This  to  him  was  some- 
thing more  than  a  personal  escape,  a  personal  success. 
He  turned  towards  the  house  across  the  valley,  the 
house  which  held  his  enemy,  and  raised  both  his 
clen  died  hands  above  his  head  in  a  kind  of  ecstacy. 

"  0   John,  John,  John  of  Exeter ! "  he  cried,   "  I 


RALPH'S  FABEWELL  359 

shall  outlive  you  yet.  England  is  yours  to-day,  but 
I  shall  come  back.  I  shall  come  back  when  you  are 
dust," 

Then  he  remembered,  and  turned  to  grasp  Stephen 
by  both  hands. 

"  I  am  not  quite  an  outcast,"  he  said,  "  while  I  have 
a  patron  saint.  I  shall  keep  St.  Stephen's  Day  when 
I  have  forgotten  all  the  rest.  Now  I  must  be  gone ; 
but  there  is  one  thing  more.  It  will  be  safest  not  to 
speak  of  me,  but  if  ever  you  meet  John  Wyclif,  at 
Oxford  or  elsewhere,  take  him  aside  and  tell  him  all 
he  cares  to  hear." 

Stephen  could  not  speak ;  he  felt  that  he  could 
not  utter  lifeless  commonplaces  in  presence  of  this 
buoyant  and  sanguine  vitality,  and  his  real  thoughts 
were  too  confused  and  tumultuous  to  find  expression. 
He  pressed  Kalph's  hand  in  silence,  and  stood  watching 
in  a  maze  of  memories  and  conjectures  so  long  as  he 
continued  in  sight.  He  saw  him  cross  the  park  where 
it  lay  open  to  the  stars,  and  followed  the  swing  of  his 
step  as  he  marched  noiselessly  along  the  edge  of  the 
high  wood  :  now  he  was  hardly  more  than  a  shadow ; 
now  the  imagination  saw  him  rather  than  the  eye; 
and  now  even  the  darkness  kept  no  trace  of  him. 
Stephen  turned  away  with  leaden  feet ;  the  longing 
of  farewell  drew  him  irresistibly.  He  passed  along 
the  bare,  ruined  arcade  of  leafless  trees  slowly  and 


360  THE  OLD  COUNTEY 

with  no  conscious  will,  but  when  he  found  himself 
by  Aubrey's  seat  he  knew  why  he  had  come.  There 
was  the  lake  by  which  he  had  walked  so  pleasantly 
with  those  he  loved,  and  fought  so  fiercely  against 
that  which  he  hated.  There  was  the  church  on  its 
island,  the  church  which  seemed  to  stand  so  wholly 
apart  from  life,  yet  to  which  all  the  lives  around  it 
were  continually  and  inevitably  returning.  There  was 
the  house  by  whose  fireside  he  had  sat  in  peace,  and 
heard  the  echoes  of  a  great  nation's  voice,  loud  with 
the  triumph  of  war,  and  deep  with  the  murmur  of 
just  rebellion.  There,  too,  he  had  followed  Love ;  lost, 
found,  conquered,  and  resigned.  How  could  he  turn 
his  back  on  this  place  and  live  ? 

He  leaned  upon  the  low  wall  where  he  sat,  with 
a  hand  as  cold  as  the  stone  itself.  The  night  was  so 
silent  and  the  shadows  so  motionless  that  it  seemed 
as  if  all  life  had  ceased,  and  the  earth  had  passed 
out  of  the  region  of  change.  Thought,  regret,  and  the 
sense  of  time  died  in  him ;  he  saw  all  that  he  had 
ever  done  as  a  bright  and  curious  picture,  the  events 
of  which  were  strangely  vivid,  but  drawn  so  small 
and  so  remote  that  they  could  no  longer  touch  the 
springs  of  human  feeling. 


WHEN  he  found  himself  once  more  in  the  world  of 
thought  and  action,  the  stars  were  pale  and  the 
shadows  had  faded  from  the  grass;  a  faint  breeze 
touched  him  with  a  mysterious  warning  of  change,  and 
passed  on  as  if  to  deliver  the  same  message  to  others  of 
its  secret  fellowship.  He  rose  reluctantly  in  obedience 
to  the  summons,  and  turned  to  look  around.  Above 
him,  to  the  right,  loomed  the  entrance  to  the  western 
avenue,  the  shadowy  corner  where  he  had  once  sat  with 
Aubrey  to  hear  the  story  of  Ogier  the  Dane ;  and 
as  he  looked,  a  cloaked  and  hooded  figure  flitted  from 
beneath  the  great  elm,  and  came  towards  him  with  a 
light,  familiar  step.  By  the  form,  by  the  grace,  by  the 
quickening  of  some  subtle  sense  within  him,  he  knew 
who  it  was  that  came,  though  her  face  was  hidden,  and 
he  could  not  guess  the  purpose  of  her  coming.  She 
moved  towards  him  swiftly,  and  as  he  went  to  meet 
her  he  saw  in  a  flash,  as  one  sees  an  arrow's  direction 
in  the  last  moment  before  it  strikes,  that  she  was  coming 
not  with  uncertainty,  but  with  resolve.  An  instant 
after  she  had  thrown  back  the  hood  from  her  face,  and 
her  arms  were  clasped  about  his  neck.  He  kissed  her 

361 


362  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

in  a  dream,  with  utter  and  unquestioning  content ; 
then  as  he  drew  back  and  looked  into  her  eyes,  his 
heart  leaped  like  a  bird  in  the  net :  this  was  no  longer 
the  lady  of  his  desire  and  his  despair,  but  one  whom 
until  this  moment  he  had  never  seen  or  met  with  or 
imagined — a  stranger,  the  strangest  among  women,  for 
she  was  his  own.  Yet  he  bent  over  her  once  more, 
and  as  their  lips  touched,  he  knew  that  always  and  in 
all  existences  her  life  and  his  had  been  and  were  to  be 
inseparably  bound  together. 

"  Why  are  you  here  ? "  she  asked  at  length. 

"  I  was  saying  good-bye ;  I  thought  that  I  must  go." 

"Go  where  you  will,"  she  said,  "and  I  go  with 
you." 

"  You  cannot,"  he  said ;  "  you  have  not  thought." 

Her  lips  trembled,  but  her  eyes  laughed  at  him. 
"  It  was  always  I  who  thought ;  you  were  only  feeling." 

"  Yes,  I  have  broken  all  my  rules." 

"  But  you  have  kept  all  mine."  She  laughed 
happily,  and  ended  with  a  little  sigh  of  satisfaction. 

"  Tell  me  your  thoughts,"  he  said ;  "  I  have  been  in 
the  dark  so  long." 

She  looked  up  at  him  gravely  for  a  moment,  as  if 
hesitating;  then,  while  he  wondered,  the  old  bright 
malice  flashed  out  irresistibly. 

"  I  was  thinking  how  different  things  would  have 
been  if  you  had  not  broken  all  your  rules." 


THE  SHADOW  ON  THE  DIAL      363 

"  Different  for  you  ? " 

"  Oh !  you  cannot  think  what  it  would  have  been 
to  leave  this  place." 

"  How  can  you  bear  to  leave  it  now  ? " 

She  laughed  again.     "  You  are  changed,  indeed." 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  but  I  have  learned  so  much." 

Again  she  sighed  out  her  happiness.  "  Ah !  if  you 
had  not  learned ! " , 

"  But  even  now,  how  can  you  leave  it  ? " 

"  To  go  with  you,"  she  answered  gravely,  "  is  not  to 
leave  it." 

He  looked  fondly  at  her,  but  the  doubt  in  his  eyes 
was  still  unanswered. 

"  No,"  she  repeated,  "  not  now ;  my  home  goes  with 
you.  Do  you  think  that  so  slight  a  change  ? " 

"  How  could  I  know  ? "  he  pleaded.  "  I  had  heard 
that  lovers  live  in  one  another." 

Gentle  scorn  played  about  her  lips.  "  0  man ! " 
she  said,  "  what  woman  could  ever  live  in  a  palace  of 
to-morrows  ? " 

Her  voice  had  all  the  tones  that  had  so  long  delighted 
him,  but  through  and  below  them  all  there  was  now 
another  that  he  had  not  known ;  a  soft,  deep  note  of 
certainty,  of  rest,  of  possession,  that  woke  an  answering 
vibration  within  him,  unlike  any  feeling  he  had  ever 
known. 

Long  after   she   ceased    speaking   he   was  silent, 


364  THE  OLD  COUNTRY 

listening  to  this  new  music,  until  at  last  he  was  recalled 
by  the  pressure  of  her  hand  in  his. 

"  Where  shall  we  go  ? "  he  asked,  rising  to  his  feet. 

"  To  the  garden  first,"  she  said,  "  for  roses." 

"  Eoses  ? "  he  asked.  "  I  thought  it  had  been  winter 
this  long  while." 

"Have  I  been  so  cold?"  she  cried,  leading  him 
towards  the  rose-alley  under  the  old  red  wall  of  the 
garden. 

He  followed  unresisting,  in  dreamy  contentment. 
To-night  the  wilderness  had  blossomed  for  him,  to-day 
a  new  dawn  was  breaking  upon  a  new  world;  why 
should  there  not  be  roses  in  midwinter  ? 

She  plucked  a  handful  and  gave  them  to  him. 
They  were  red  and  sweet;  the  green  thorns  pricked 
him  as  he  grasped  them,  the  dew  splashed  coldly  upon 
his  hand  and  wrist ;  all  down  the  alley  the  dusk  was 
fresh  with  the  same  cool  fragrance,  and  overhead  be- 
tween the  heavy  poles  a  tangle  of  leaves  and  rambling 
clusters  darkened  the  gray  spaces  of  the  sky. 

At  the  end  they  turned  and  came  slowly  back ; 
the  east  was  lightening  before  them,  and  Stephen  saw, 
when  they  crossed  the  avenue  again,  that  the  great 
aisle  was  massy  now  and  star-proof  with  sombre  green. 
By  Aubrey's  seat  the  terrace  lay  once  more  as  he  re- 
membered it:  below,  the  long  slope  of  the  park  was 
a  deep  sea  of  summer  grass,  with  trees  in  full  foliage 


THE  SHADOW  ON  THE  DIAL  365 

becalmed  upon  it ;  above,  the  house  stared  down  with 
gray  face  and  sightless  windows,  as  cold  and  still  as 
when  he  saw  it  last  under  the  setting  moon.  A  second 
time  the  light  breeze  whispered  a  mysterious  message 
and  was  gone  again;  a  faint  flush  rose  behind  the 
distant  hills  and  mounted  till  half  the  sky  was  glowing 
softly  with  ethereal  blue  and  crimson. 

"  There  comes  the  sun,"  said  Aubrey ;  "  let  us  see 
what  time  it  is." 

They  leaned  upon  the  sun-dial  together,  watching 
intently  for  the  first  pale  shadow,  as  if  great  things 
depended  on  the  due  performance  of  the  rite.  When 
the  moment  came  at  last,  and  the  golden  light  fell 
across  the  dial,  they  looked  up  at  one  another  and 
smiled. 

"  Our  first  day  has  begun,"  she  said. 
He  pressed  her  hand  silently,  and  they  looked  down 
again  at  the  shadow,  watching  it  dreamily  as  it  moved 
from  one  figure  to  another  on  the  green,  mould-spotted 
circle  of  bronze. 

"  How  fast  it  steals  along ! "  he  said,  musing ;  "  it 
counts  our  moments  as  hours." 

"  That  is  nothing  to  us,"  she  murmured,  still  more 
softly.  "  We  know  that  it  is  only  a  shadow." 

THE  END 


PRINTED   BT 

WllXUJI  CLOWES  AND  SONS,   LIMITED, 
I.OXDON   AND   BICOLE8. 


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